


Wreck We Made

by thewolvescalledmehome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bipolar Disorder, Boxing, Drunk driving reference, Exes, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Infidelity, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon has mental health issues, Medication, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:12:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: Jon and Sansa were high school sweethearts--the real-deal, meant-to-be couple. The one everyone thought would get married, buy a house, and start a family right out of college. Life had other plans.Or, the one where Jon and Sansa haven't spoken or interacted since they broke up 5 years ago, but a family event draws them both back to Winterfell at the same time and old issues and old feelings arise.





	1. Sansa

Sansa rolled over in her sleep, arm flopping over the body next to her. The shock at feeling a warm back under her hand was what woke her. She lifted her head, quickly removing her hand from where it landed.

It took her sleep-addled brain several seconds to realize that the man sleeping next to her was her boyfriend— _no, no, fiancé_ , she sleepily reminded herself—and not the man she’d just been dreaming about.

Once her brain sorted out where she was—when she was—she rolled over, separating her body from the one next to her.

Sansa tried to fall back asleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the dream she’d just been having.

She’d been at a bookshop in Winterfell, and someone she’d known from high school was ringing her up.

_“Have you got a membership?”_

_“I haven’t, but my fiancé has.”_

_Theon nodded behind the counter, and started typing before she even had a chance to tell him her fiancé’s name._

_“Ah, yep, here it is.” Theon rang her up, bagging the book she’d bought. “Tell Jon I say hi, yeah?”_

_“Sorry, Jon?”_

_“Your fiancé.”_

_“Oh, no. I’m engaged to Willas. I’ve not spoke to Jon since university.”_

_“Oh, erm, my mistake then.”_

The dream jumped in time then, and all she remembered was seeing a montage of people trying to get in contact with Jon for her. She remembered questioning her engagement in the dream, running off to figure out why things never worked out between her and Jon.

Sansa rolled over again, so that she was facing Willas. She was engaged to Willas. She was sleeping next to Willas. It should be Willas she was dreaming of, not Jon, who’d she hadn’t spoken to or heard from in at least five years.

She studied Willas’s face, reminding herself why she fell in love with him, but the dream was all she could think about. It was consuming her thoughts.

Sighing, she rolled over again, this time pulling up her phone.

It was a quarter past two in the morning. Looking up an ex from high school on Facebook in the middle of the night while lying next to her fiancé seemed to be the stupidest decision she could make. If she were smart—if she had more self control—she would just curl up next to Willas and go back to sleep.

And yet, here she was, typing _Jon Snow_ into the blue search bar.

Sansa was surprised at how quickly she found him. The last time she’d searched for him, right before she’d met Willas, he’d not had one. At least one she could find. This time he came up right away.

She tried not to smile at his profile picture—it looked like a massive white wolf dog had tackled him. She couldn’t see much else, given that they weren’t friends and he had his privacy settings on high. Just that he lived farther north of Winterfell and that he was single.

Even though she couldn’t see anything else about him, Sansa spent a good half hour going through his friends list—mostly Robb and Theon’s pages—trying to see if he’d been tagged in anything. He had, but nothing recent—though that wasn’t saying much given that Theon and Robb were both shite at social media. She even flipped over to Instagram to see if Jon had a public account, but she wasn’t at all surprised to find he didn’t have an account period.

When she exhausted her search, she thought whatever was compelling her to look into Jon would be sated, but it wasn’t. She closed her phone, rolling back to Willas, still thinking about Jon and the dream she’d had. She was sure it was just because of the freshness of the dream and the fact it was the dead of night.

It’d all be fine in the morning. She wouldn’t even remember the dream.

* * *

When Willas kissed her awake in the morning, it took Sansa a moment to realize that it was Willas’s lips she felt. For a brief second she was still in her dream from earlier in the night, and thought it might have been Jon’s lips she was feeling.

She had to push the thought from her head and focus on the man in her bed.

 _It’s just because I’ve not yet woken up all the way yet,_ she told herself. _It doesn’t mean anything, and neither did the dream last night._

* * *

Over the course of the next week, Sansa kept expecting to forget about her dream, forget about Jon, forget about the feelings she’d had for him once upon a time. She found herself on his Facebook more than once during her lunch break, debating on whether sending a friend request would send up red flags—for him or herself she wasn’t quite sure.

At the end of the week, Sansa was fed up with herself.

Her and Willas were fine. They were engaged. She was happy to be marrying him in a year. She hadn’t thought about Jon in years, until this dream.

She just needed to get the dream out of her head—get Jon out of her head.

So she decided to write about it.

Late Friday night, after several glasses of wine while waiting for Willas to come home from his lad’s night out, she sat down at their kitchen table with a stack of stationary she had since she was thirteen. It was pink and girly and not quite who she was anymore, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if anyone would be seeing it or reading it. She just needed to get it out of her head.

Plus, the last time she’d used this stationary was when she’d made Jon a Valentine’s card as a teenaged girl. In fact, Jon was the only person she’d written to using this stationary, so it seemed fitting.

 

_Dear Jon,_

_I had a dream about you. I dreamt that everyone thought I was engaged to you, as if it’s supposed to be you. In the dream, it made me question my engagement. In my dream, I went looking for you, to figure out why it never worked out between us. It was a hunt to find you, too, in my dream. I remember seeing everyone rushing about the North, trying to find you, sending notes and letters that all seemed to just miss you, until I found you. I woke up before there was any resolution, of course. _

_I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, or you, all week._

_I even stalked you on Facebook when I woke up, trying to remember why we didn’t work. Except I couldn’t remember. It’s a week later, and I still can’t._

_I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since then._

_I’ve thought about friend requesting you several times. I’ve wasted my lunch break too many times this week staring at that button._

_I don’t know what to do with this, Jon. I don’t know how to get you out of my head._

_I haven’t thought about you in anything more than passing since my early uni days._

_What do I do about you, Jon?_

_I haven’t spoken to you or about you in five years and yet you still consume me._

_Tell me, remind me, why we didn’t work the first time._

_Why am engaged to Willas and not you?_

_Tell me why I should be marrying Willas and not you, because, Seven save me, I can’t remember._

_One dream about you and I’m second-guessing a five-year relationship._

_What is it about you, Jon?_

_Do I do this to you? One dream about me and I’m all you think about?_

_Typically, I’d say I hope not. I’d say I hope you’ve moved on and found love and rarely think of me, but right now I’m frustrated with you and what you’ve done to me._

_~~I don’t know how to sign this. Love? Obsessed? Hate?~~ _

_~~Thank the gods I’m not sending this.~~ _

_Sansa_

Sansa finished her wine before folding the thick paper into thirds and slid it into the envelope that came with the stationary. She wrote Jon’s name on the front and then stared at it.

What did she do with it now?

She could tear it up or send it through the shredder at work. She could bury it in her underwear drawer or slip it between the mattress and the box spring on her side of the bed.  She could stick it in the back of the bloody freezer and forget about it. She could burn it.

 _Burning_.

She liked that idea. Burning it and releasing these thoughts back into the world. She was sure she’d heard of offerings being done that way for the old gods—the ones her father’s family once worshipped.

The only problem was that their flat didn’t have a fireplace, nor were they allowed open flames at all. She had no way of burning it.

She poured herself another glass while trying to come up with a solution.

By the time she finished that glass, she still hadn’t thought of anything other than burning it, and still hadn’t thought of a way to burn it. She also knew that Willas was due to be home soon, and she couldn’t very well be sitting at their kitchen table, half a bottle of wine down, writing letters to another man.

Deciding to deal with the damned thing when sober, Sansa folded it in half and shoved it in her underwear drawer between pairs of period pants where she knew Willas would never find it.

* * *

The letter served its purpose. Sansa, for all intents and purposes, forgot about the dream, forgot about the letter, and forgot about Jon.

For three weeks, none of those things crossed her mind.

It wasn’t until she was packing to go to her parents’ for a long weekend that she saw the letter and remembered her intent to burn it. Sansa packed it along with her underwear, thinking she would definitely get a chance while in Winterfell to burn it in her parents’ large fireplace.

Plus, Willas wouldn’t be joining her for this trip, meaning she wouldn’t have to sneak away from him in order to do it.

Yes, she would burn the letter and be rid of it and Jon once and for all.

* * *

Sansa felt the letter weighing down her bag as she hugged her family members in the foyer. Something about carrying it so far north, to where she and Jon were _she and Jon_ , where her dream took place, made her feel a sense of guilt. It didn’t help, either, that her parents kept asking her about Willas.

_Tonight. I’ll get rid of it tonight. And be rid of him once and for all._

She tucked her bag, letter still inside, partially under her bed, and thought she’d leave it until everyone else went to bed, then sneak back down to burn it. Figuring it safe, she went back downstairs.

“So you’re in town for the weekend, yeah?” Arya asked after dinner. Sansa was curled up on the sofa with a mug of tea, trying to keep herself awake after all the traveling to get to Winterfell.

“Till Wednesday, I think. Why?”

“Just heard in town today that you’re not the only one coming back this weekend.”

“Who else is supposed to be home?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Theon said he’d be back,” Robb supplied from the other side of the room.

“Gendry’s supposed to be home this weekend too.”

“Oh, and Jon, of course,” Robb added, as if it were an after thought. As if he was trying to say it nonchalantly enough that maybe she wouldn’t notice.

“What’s so special about this weekend that everyone’s coming back?” Sansa asked, suddenly feeling like she’d been tricked.

“Jeyne and I have some news we wanted to share with everyone home. It’s a shame Willas couldn’t make it. We wanted to share it with him too.”

Sansa side-eyed her brother, who was anything but subtle. Jeyne, who was sat beside him, was giving him a similar look.

“Oh?”

“We’re having a little party Tuesday night to announce it. Nobody mentioned it to you?”

“No, they didn’t.” It was hard for Sansa to keep any bitterness or resentment out of her voice. The feeling of being tricked morphed into a feeling of being trapped.

“Oh, well. Now you know. We’re going to have everyone over, have some dinner, some drinks. I think everyone said they’ll be coming in Sunday evening. Theon and Jon will probably be staying here, too, heads up.”

“Right, thanks.” She didn’t even bother to try to mask the sarcasm this time.

“It’ll be nice though—having everyone home for a few days. You lot haven’t all been home at the same time in years,” Arya pointed out, which Sansa thought was fair. Theon, Gendry, and Jon all spent as much time at the Stark house that people thought they were siblings or cousins until they all got older.

Had she not had the dream almost a month ago, had she not had the letter upstairs, the idea of seeing Jon again wouldn’t mean anything to her. It would be the same as seeing Theon, despite the fact that she and Theon never dated. If she hadn’t had the dream, she wouldn’t be questioning whether or not she was truly over Jon.

Sansa fought her hardest to stay up later than her siblings, but neither of them had started their day on the other side of the continent, so they had that advantage. Which was why she ended up falling asleep on the sofa, listening to Robb, Arya, Jeyne, Bran, and Rickon laugh and tell stories from their childhood.

* * *

Sansa woke up on the sofa to a dark and quiet living room. The fire looked as though it had long been put out, suggesting it was probably early morning. Too sleepy to remember her plan, Sansa stumbled up stairs and fell into bed, not even touching her bag for pajamas.


	2. Jon

It had been years since Jon was in Winterfell. He’d left for a reason, and now he was back.

 _Only for a few days,_ he reminded himself. _And it’s for Robb_. _I’m only coming back for Robb._

It would be good to see the Starks, though. It had been too long. Going back to the Stark house was the closest thing he ever had to coming home. He may hate being in the town, but he could admit that some part of him did look forward to coming back.

He couldn’t help the smile from splitting his face when he saw Arya waiting for him in the car park.

“How’re you, little sister?” he asked, ruffling her hair.

“At some point you’re going to have to stop calling me that,” she muttered, yanking herself out from under his hand but then launching herself into his arms.

“At some point you’re going to stop doing that. I’m getting too old,” he groaned, but squeezed her tight nonetheless.

“You look well,” she said seriously, once she’d returned to the ground.

“Thanks,” he muttered. He didn’t like talking about his health, or being reminded of the times when he wasn’t where he was now.

“Theon’s supposed to be in after dinner. Gendry got an early flight, so he came in last night,” Arya chattered as she led him to her car. He was braced, waiting for her to mention the one Stark he was nervous about seeing.

By the time they were driving up to the Starks’ house, she still hadn’t said anything about Sansa. He almost wanted to ask, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t want to seem too eager, too not over her.

Because he was. Over her.

But it was still a shock to see her as soon as he stepped over the threshold. He could’ve sworn his heart stopped beating.

“Oh, hi, Jon. I didn’t realize Arya had gone to fetch you.”

“Yeah,” he said stupidly, because he had nothing else to say.

“Arya, have you been in my room?” she asked, coming the rest of the way down the stairs and seemingly having moved on from his arrival. Jon hadn’t gotten over his shock of seeing her though.

“No.”

“Do you know if any of the boys have?”

“Why would I know what they’ve been up to?”

“Fine,” Sansa huffed.

“You’re in the basement with Theon—but you’ve dibs on the pullout or futon. Dinner’s not for a few hours yet, so if you want to get settled, go for it.”

“Yeah, think I will, thanks.”

“I’ll call you up when it’s ready.”

Jon appreciated Arya’s way of allowing some time to rest and recover before having to see the rest of the family. He appreciated that she gave him an out without reminding him of why he needed an out.

As soon as he was downstairs, he immediately claimed the pullout sofa. Neither the pullout nor the futon were great options, but he remembered spending nights in this basement and fighting Theon for the pullout because the futon never granted him a decent night’s sleep. And he’d definitely need one, being back in Winterfell, back around Sansa.

Jon thought he needed a nap now. It was only mid-afternoon, but it’d already felt like a long morning. Flying always wiped the hell out of him, and the added stress of being where he was left him feeling more drained and subdued than he’d felt since he’d started this most recent dosage of meds.

Thinking to take up Arya’s offer of a few hours of peace, Jon transformed the sofa into a bed and figured even if he ended up not sleeping, a few hours in the dark, alone, and resting it would leave him feeling much closer to his normal.

* * *

“Ah, see you’ve stuck me with futon,” Jon was greeted with an hour and a half later. He’d dozed on and off and was now fairly happy that he hadn’t actually fallen asleep.

“Arya said you weren’t meant to be in until after dinner. I haven’t missed it, have I?” he tacked on after a beat, embarrassment swelling inside him.

“Nah, got in early. Robb said it’d probably be a half hour yet.” Jon nodded, noting how easily that feeling that had just filled him dissipated. That was new and refreshing. “You’re looking good.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. He hadn’t realized word of it all had reached as far as Theon, whom he hadn’t talked to since they graduated high school.

“So how’s it feel, being back? Being here?”

“Fine,” Jon said shortly.

“Have you seen Sansa yet?”

“Briefly.”

“How was that?”

“What are you, a shrink?” Jon snapped, but instantly felt bad. He’d been seeing a therapist for the last few years and actually found it very helpful. And he knew Theon meant well. “Sorry.”

“So do you know what this news is?” Theon asked, and Jon was grateful for the subject change.

“I think we’ve all got a decent guess.”

“It’ll be mad, won’t it? Robb being a dad?”

Jon remembered when he waited, excitedly, for the day that he would be a dad. Back when they were in high school, it was a running joke that he would be the first one of them to be a dad, and not because of an accident. He used to be so anxious, so excited to start a family.

He hadn’t thought about being a parent in several years. Not since he left Winterfell. Then, for a while, he thought there was no way he’d ever be a parent. Not with his mental state. This new dose, the new medication, though, he realized, might put that back on the table.

He didn’t know what to think about that.

“Yeah, mad,” he said at last.

“Dinner’s ready, lads,” Arya called down the stairs then.

Jon had been feeling relatively fine up until that moment, but suddenly the idea of seeing the entire Stark family, plus Jeyne, Theon, and Gendry seemed overwhelming.

“Jon, you coming?” Theon asked, already half way up the stairs.

“Yeah, I’ll be one second.”

He ducked into the bathroom to run water over his face and cool the flush he could feel rising. He wasn’t sure if it was caused more by the overwhelming feeling of the whole Stark clan or if it was just seeing Sansa.

* * *

Dinner wasn’t as bad as Jon thought it would be. He was anticipating loads of questions about what he’s been up to the past five or so years and about how he was feeling, but there weren’t. They asked about his trip down and if there was anything he wanted to do while he was in town. A lot of the talk was reminiscing about the last times they were all together, back when he, Theon, and Robb were in high school. That was much easier to deal with than anything else he was expecting.

He was also grateful for where they all ended up sitting around the table. He’d been sat next to Theon, with Arya across from him. Sansa was on the same side of the table as him, far at the other end. He’d barely caught sight of her all dinner, and because they were mostly talking about antics he, Robb, and Theon had gotten up to in high school, she was quiet. And the conversation was kept away from their relationship.

It was glaringly obvious that Robb, Theon, and Arya were doing their damnedest to steer it that way, to keep any mention of stories where he and Sansa were together out of the air.

The only part of dinner that left him with the sick feeling he’d been expecting was when Catelyn mentioned Willas—who was apparently Sansa’s fiancé. He knew she’d been dating someone. He wasn’t so removed from the family that he didn’t hear updates and gossip, but he must’ve missed that she was engaged.

He wished he would’ve known that before and had the chance to mentally prepare himself. If he had, it wouldn’t have felt like such a blow.

* * *

Jon was unsurprised when he was the first one to say goodnight and go to bed, even before Catelyn, whom he distinctly remembered going to bed long before anyone else. He’d grown used to it in the last several years—always being the first one to leave any event.

He tromped downstairs to a chorus of good nights and sleep wells, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw an envelope on the pullout. He knew that stationary, and he knew that handwriting.

It was from Sansa.

His first reaction was to bolt—run back upstairs, ask Theon if he saw the envelope too. Ask her what the hell she was playing at. His second was to ignore it—brush it off and pretend he’d never seen it, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d be consumed with trying to figure out what it contained.

He’d have to open it.

His hands shook as he tore the envelope open, as he unfolded the thick stationary he recognized from letters Sansa had written him back when they were together.

He collapsed on the pullout after just seeing the _Dear Jon_ in her soft script.

 _I had a dream about you_ , it began.

Jon had definitely stopped breathing.

He held his breath as he read the letter, once, twice, then a third time.

The part that stuck out, that he kept coming back to was _Tell me, remind me, why we didn’t work the first time. Why am engaged to Willas and not you? Tell me why I should be marrying Willas and not you, because, Seven save me, I can’t remember._

He couldn’t believe that she couldn’t remember why they ended. How could she forget that disastrous event?

Jon felt the urge to find her in that moment and remind her, yell _how could you forget that night you called me crying, saying you were late?_

They’d been together for three years at that point. Sansa had been nearly done with her second year of university. They weren’t technically in a long distance relationship—her university and his trade school were a half hour away, so they didn’t see each other every day, but they saw each other every week.

Jon had spent a recent weekend at her dorm, and they’d spent most of their time in bed. They’d spent weekends like this before, and neither of them had thought anything of it until he was woken up three weeks later in the early morning.

_“Jon, Jon, I’m late,” she sobbed before he said anything._

_“It’s half two in the morning. Late for what?” he grumbled, not fully awake._

_“My period, Jon. I’m a week late.”_

_He was awake then. He felt a surge of panic, but that was quickly replaced with excitement. He knew he always wanted children. Wanted children with Sansa, specifically. This was just a little ahead of schedule. They could make it work. He only had a few months left on his degree. She could take a term off until he was finished, then go back. They would find a way. They could make it work._

_Jon didn’t say any of this, though._

_“Are you sure?” he asked instead._

_“I’m sure that I’m late, yes.”_

_“But that doesn’t…necessarily mean…” he stumbled. He knew he couldn’t voice his excitement while she was still sobbing._

_“I’ve never been late before, Jon.”_

_He spent an hour on the phone trying to calm her down, while trying not to show his excitement._

_Jon spent the rest of his week coming up with a plan for how they would make this work. He was planning on driving to surprise her at her dorm as soon as his last class was done on Friday._

_She surprised him instead, showing up at his apartment._

_“I got my period!” she shrieked, throwing her arms around him. Jon’s arms automatically wound around her, but he didn’t feel the same relief she apparently did._

_He felt crushed, not just by her news, but by her excitement and release._

_How could she be so relieved?_

_Jon spiraled from there—his mind obsessing over whether or not she actually loved him, if she was so relieved not to be pregnant by him._

_Two weeks later, he broke up with her, but he couldn’t put his thoughts into words. Instead, he said that with finishing his degree and them living with some distance between them, a relationship was just too hard at the moment._

The memory of the event came crashing over him, as he still held the letter.

 _That’s why she can’t remember_ , he realized suddenly. He never told her the truth.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Shit.”

* * *

“Jon, Gendry and I are going to the gym. Wanna come?” Theon asked, having come half way down the stairs.

Jon was curled under a blanket on the pullout. He’d yet to get up even though it was nearly afternoon.

“Thanks, but no.”

“You sure? Gendry’s said he’d teach me how to box.”

Something about that caused Jon to lift his head.

His therapist did suggest getting into some kind of physical activity to help aid his medication in keeping him healthy. He’d never liked the idea of running just to run or lifting weights, but boxing. Boxing had a point to it.

“When’re you leaving?”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“Yeah, all right. I’ll come.”

Jon waited until Theon went back upstairs before he dragged himself out of bed and pulled on a pair of joggers and a hoodie.

He hesitated at the stairs though. What if Sansa was up there? What would he say to her? What _could_ he say to her?

So he sat, and waited until he heard Gendry and Theon heading for the door, then ran for it, head down, hoping he didn’t see any red as he bolted through.

The gym they went to surprised Jon. He was expecting them to go to a regular gym, one with machines, weights, and maybe a bag in the corner. He did not expect to go to an actual boxing gym that had a ring, multiple bags, and what Gendry said was a speed bag.

Gendry set them both up by wrapping their fists and finding them gloves that fit.

Jon started on a bag, after Gendry moved his feet and instructed the pattern he should be going for. From where he was, he could see Theon and Gendry hop into a ring.

He quickly fell into a rhythm of punching the bag. He thought, initially, that the mindlessness of the pattern would allow him to obsess over Sansa’s letter and the events that caused him to break it off. The events that caused him to realize maybe there was something not wholly right with him.

That wasn’t the case, though. Keeping the pattern actually cleared his mind. He didn’t think of Sansa, or those events. He didn’t think of the fact that Robb was most likely going to announce that he would be a father, when they all thought it was going to be him. He didn’t think about his health or the medication he was on.

For the first time that he could remember, he didn’t think of anything but the pattern he was punching in.

* * *

Jon spent the next day and a half avoiding Sansa. He ended up spending quite a bit of time at the gym with Gendry, learning how to box. Theon didn’t join them after the first time. Gendry had knocked him down one too many times for him to find it enjoyable, apparently. Jon didn’t mind getting knocked down though. It just made the times he actually landed something on Gendry all the sweeter.

* * *

Jon, for the first time since starting medication, was irritated about it. He had been willing to put up with all the side effects, to endure all the different types of dosages, because he knew at the end of the road he would be better than he was when he started.

Today, though, he wished he weren’t on meds.

Today, he wished he could drink.

Today, he would have to listen to his best friend announce that he would soon be a father.

Today, he would have to listen to that with the woman he wanted to have children with in the room.

 _This would be so much easier if I could drink_ , he thought, watching as Jeyne poured glasses of champagne before everyone else showed.

He did suppose he could have a glass of champagne. His doctor had said an occasional drink, so long as it wasn’t a hard liquor, wouldn’t dramatically effect his medication, but a glass of champagne also wouldn’t really make any part of this party easier.

He was debating on whether or not to take a glass when Sansa came into the kitchen.

Aside from dinner, he hadn’t seen her since he arrived.

He was going to find some excuse to rush out, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Jeyne said something about finding Robb and left the kitchen.

“Think they’ll mind if a have one now? We all know what they’ll be announcing anyway,” Sansa asked, reaching for a glass. He felt himself hold his breath as her hand passed near him. “Plus, it’s non-alcoholic, so it’s not like I can get sloppy on them.”

“It’s what?”

Sansa fished the bottle from the recycling and showed him the label. It was, in fact, non-alcoholic champagne.

Well, it wouldn’t mess with his meds. It wouldn’t make him feel much better either, but he could pretend at least.

“If we didn’t know, we certainly would now,” he heard Sansa mutter, dropping the bottle back down. “So what’ve you been up to the last few days? It’s seemed like you and Gendry were rushing off constantly.”

“Just the gym. He’s teaching me how to box.”

“Is he? How’s that going?”

“Fine. It’s surprisingly effective at clearing my head,” he admitted before he could stop himself.

“Oh, well then, maybe I should take up boxing.”

He wanted to ask what she had to clear from her head, but then he remembered the letter for the first time in several days, and he wondered if she had to clear her head of him, the same way he had to clear his head of her.

He suddenly felt the urge to bring up the letter, to admit why he had broken it off. He thought it was only fair that he tell her the truth, after letting her believe that lie for the past five-plus years.

“I realized that—”

“Sansa, can you come help hang this?” Jeyne called from the other room.

“Sorry, I’ll be back.”

“Oh, yeah, a’course,” he mumbled, stumbling out of her way so there was no chance of her getting any closer than necessary.

* * *

The announcement was exactly as painful to hear as Jon thought it would be. Robb was going to be a father. The grin he forced himself to hold in place nearly hurt more—it would have, if it had been anybody but Robb. He loved Robb like a brother. He was happy for Robb. He just wished it had been him—him and Sansa—first.

As soon as it was acceptable, Jon slipped outside, away from all the cheeriness that was starting to make his chest ache.

“Needed a break?” a voice floated out of the darkness.

Jon jumped higher than he’d like to admit he was able to.

Sansa was sitting on one of the swings that hung from the great white tree in the backyard.

He immediately remembered all the times they’d sat on those swings, when at family holidays it had all suddenly been too much for him and he needed to escape. Even before they’d started dating, she used to escape with him.

He’d forgotten about that.

Hesitantly, he settled on the other swing, years of memories playing out as he did.

“You had started to say something earlier, in the kitchen?” Sansa suddenly prompted.

 _Oh, that? It was nothing. Don’t worry about it,_ he wanted to say, but he couldn’t lie to her out here on the swings—their swings.

“About your letter…” he started, trying to find the right words.

“My _what_?” she shrieked, twisting the swing violently in order to face him.

“The letter you wrote. About your dream. Asking why we broke up.” Jon said the words even as it dawned on him that the scored lines at the end weren’t because of a change in heart about the letter.

She’d never meant for him to read it.

“I _knew_ Arya’d been through my things! I should’ve never written it.”

“You asked why we broke up though,” he plowed forward anyway. He’d already started; he couldn’t back out now. She deserved to know. “It was because I was afraid you didn’t love me. It wasn’t because of the distance and my degree.”

“I’m sorry?” Sansa squeaked.

Jon took a deep breath, digging the toe of his shoe into the dirt.

“This is all before I realized my brain wasn’t quite normal, mind,” he prefaced, because he thought that was important. He recognized now how his reaction was extreme and out of the blue.

“Right, okay.”

“Do you remember that weekend near the end of your second year of uni? We had that pregnancy scare?” He’d never said it out loud like that before. Never used the term _pregnant_ in association with that week. He’d always just said she’d been late.

Sansa nodded slowly.

“You were so scared…but I was _excited._ I was so ready to be a father—a father to _our_ child. I had a plan. We were going to make it work, and then you showed up, had gotten your period. You were so relieved. I think that’s what scared me. How could you be so relieved, unless you didn’t want to have kids with me? Unless you didn’t love me,” he admitted softly, looking at the hole his shoe was currently making.

“Jon, we were kids. I was barely nineteen. Of course I was scared.”

“No, I know, I know. I know now that your reaction was the rational one, but I couldn’t see that at the time.”

She surprised him by putting her hand on his knee. It sent shivers and waves of warmth through him at the same time.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. It’s fine. Not your fault.”

She squeezed his knee, and he raised his eyes to hers for the first time since he began this rabbit hole of conversation.

“Not yours either,” she whispered, squeezing his knee again. “I wish you would’ve told me, though. We could’ve talked through it. We could’ve ha…” she trailed off, but Jon knew what she had started to say.

_We could’ve had a child by now._

“Hearing the announcement must’ve been hard.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, breaking eye contact again.

Looking at her was dangerous. Being out here in the dark with her was dangerous. It would be far too easy to fall back in love with her.

“So…erm, you read that letter, huh?” Sansa said after a long pause of silence.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t know…”

“No, it’s okay, I know. I fully blame Arya for this.”

They were quiet again, the chatter and laughter from the baby announcement spilling out into the yard with the faint orange glow from the kitchen. Jon saw Robb and Jeyne through the window, arms wrapped around each other. In another life, that could’ve been him and Sansa.

The idea made his heart ache.

“Do you ever think about it?”

“What?”

“Where we’d be now, if it hadn’t worked out the way it had.”

Jon nearly fell back in love with her just for phrasing it that way. _If it hadn’t worked out the way it had._ As if it were fate and not him that caused them to end.

“All the time,” he answered truthfully.

“I didn’t, before. I didn’t understand. I thought we just weren’t meant to be, but now… Ever since that dream… Jon, what if I’m not meant to marry Willas? What if it’s meant to be you?”

He could hear the fear and hesitancy in her voice. Hear the anxiety, the _what if I’m wrong, what if this is all a mistake_.

“I don’t have an answer for you, Sansa.” There was a bitterness in his voice he couldn’t control, but that didn’t explain why his heart was racing.

“What if I _want_ it to be you, Jon?”

“Do you?” he asked, turning to her, only to have her mouth collide with his.

He should’ve been shocked. He should’ve been startled. He should’ve pulled away and asked _are you sure?_ He should’ve stopped her.

He should’ve forgotten what her kisses tasted like.


	3. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen several people asking about Jon's mental health--it will be revealed in a later chapter. Also, I know this seems abrupt, but hopefully it makes sense and feels right as the each chapter is posted.

Sansa propped herself up on her elbow, letting the sheets slip down to her hip. She trailed her fingers around Jon’s naked chest, making a pattern around the scars scattered there.

“I heard about the accident, you know. I heard that’s why you left Winterfell.”

Jon’s eyes fluttered open to meet hers, and she was shocked to see shame there.

“You did?”

“Yeah, the drunk driver that hit you? Nearly killed you, Arya said. Soon as you were out of hospital you fled north.”

His eyes flinched shut.

Her stomach sank. Not even ninety minutes and she’d already said something wrong.

“Arya’s a saint,” he grumbled, and she couldn’t help but snort. “I wasn’t hit by a drunk driver. I _was_ the drunk driver.” Sansa swore her heart stopped beating. “Crashed through a guard rail, rolled the car, and hit a tree.”

“Seven hells…”

“It’s okay. It’s good that it happened. It was my rock bottom. I started therapy once I moved north and got a fresh start.”

“What happened, that you were even near rock bottom?”

“It was about a month after I broke up with you,” he whispered. Sansa’s eyes burned.

“Oh, Jon…”

He reached up, his callused hand pushing the hair that had fallen forward behind her ear. His hand stayed there though, cupping her cheek.

Sansa leaned into the touch, warmth and fuzziness flooding through her in a way she hadn’t felt with Willas for a long time.

Looking into Jon’s eyes, Sansa felt herself falling. Falling into his deep grey eyes, falling into that soft, soft look he was giving her. Falling in love with him.

Instead of saying any of the things she felt swelling inside her, she kissed him again, sliding her leg over his hips. She knew she was probably kissing more tenderly than they had before, when it had been passionate, heated, and in the moment.

* * *

Sansa sneaked Jon out of her room in the early morning. It wasn’t so much that she was ashamed of what had happened—repeatedly—it was that she had cheated on Willas. Her family didn’t need to know that. She’d just go back and break off the engagement. That would be easy enough. She could just omit the detail of her and Jon sleeping together.

* * *

Sansa’s flight was supposed to leave at noon, so she spent the morning rushing around to make sure she had everything.

Once she was packed and ready, she sat at her childhood desk. She’d been hoping to see Jon again before she left, but Theon said he was still knocked out in the basement.

She felt the need to talk to him though—she’d been fine last night, but she woke up feeling nervous.

They hadn’t said that last night was anything more than a one-night stand. They hadn’t talked about what they were or what last night meant.

Sansa needed to know that Jon was in this. He needed to be as invested in this as she was. She needed to know. She couldn’t break it off with Willas if he regretted last night.

Sansa pulled out her stationary—the same one she’d written the other letter on—and began writing.

 

_Dear Jon,_

_I can’t believe what happened last night, but it felt right. At least it did to me._

_Did it feel so right to you?_

_I need to know that you feel the way I do. I need to know that I won’t be ruining my life if I tell Willas—if I choose you. Because if I choose you, you need to choose me too._

_I’m flying back to Highgarden today. I won’t tell Willas if last night didn’t mean anything to you. I’ll just go on with my life and you can go on with yours._

_But if last night did mean something to do, you need to tell me. I don’t care how. Call me, text me, email me, send me a letter, show up in Highgarden. I don’t care, but you need to tell me._

_If I don’t hear from you by the end of the month, I’ll assume that last night was just a one-off and I’ll marry Willas._

_If last night meant for you what it meant for me, I’ll end it with Willas and be back on a flight here if that’s what you want._

_Please let me know._

_Do you choose me?_

_Love,_

_Sansa_

Sansa folded the letter into the envelop, wrote _Jon_ on the front, and sealed it.

On her way out of the house, she dropped her bags by the front door and headed for the basement under the guise of saying goodbye to Jon.

He was dead asleep on the pullout, arm flung over his head, snoring quietly.

Sansa pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, just above his beard, and set the envelop squarely on the mattress next to his pillow, where he wouldn’t be able to miss it.

She ran her fingers gently through his hair before heading up stairs, shouldering her bags, and flying back to Highgarden.

Waiting anxiously to hear from Jon.


	4. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ridiculously short, which is why I'm posting it with chapter 3. I had originally planned this to be a 7k(ish) one shot, but it got out of hand and is verging on 20k. When it was a one shot, this section made sense being so short and now I can't bear to change it so I apologize.

In his sleep, Jon rolled over, flopping his arm up next to his pillow. As he did so, the envelop next to him slid off the bed and through the metal slotting the pullout folded back into.

When he remade the sofa before he left later that afternoon, he didn’t see the pink envelope at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a time jump between this chapter and the next, so be prepared for that. 
> 
> I hope to have 5 up sometime tomorrow.


	5. Sansa

**SIX YEARS LATER**

 

Sansa was not ready for this. It had been years and she was still not ready for this. Even as she piled the bags by the front door, her heart pounded with nerves and anxiety.

In less than five hours the secret she’s kept for almost six years would be out.

“Sarra, we’ve got to get going,” Sansa called, pulling her coat on and taking down her five-year-old daughter’s.

Sansa watched her daughter shuffle into the room, a book in front of her face. Usually this made Sansa chuckle or swell with pride at how badly Sarra wanted to be able to read chapter books on her own. But she was looking at her daughter with different eyes today.

Today, she noticed Sarra’s grey eyes and her curly hair that was a little darker than her own. She noticed her quiet, studious, observing nature.

Her family had assumed that she and Willas had gotten unexpectedly pregnant and then split because they couldn’t agree on what to do. They never flat out asked her what happened between her and Willas, and they never asked whose Sarra was, so she let them assume what they wanted.

That wouldn’t work this week, though, because for the first time in six years, she was returning to Winterfell, her daughter with her.

Her daughter and her daughter’s father were going to be in the same room for the first time ever, and it was going to be glaringly obvious to anyone with a working set of eyes that Sarra’s father was not Willas, as she let everyone assume, but Jon Snow, her ex-boyfriend she slept with at Robb and Jeyne’s baby announcement.

If it weren’t for Arya getting married, Sansa wouldn’t be returning at all.

If it weren’t Arya getting married, Sansa wouldn’t be so sure that Jon would be there at all, but Sansa knew that Arya had asked him to be her man of honor.

“How come we’re going to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s?” Sarra asked as Sansa buckled her into her car seat.

“Your Aunt Arya is getting married.”

“Married?”

“It’s like a huge party. Like a birthday, for her and Gendry.”

“How come we never go to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s?”

“Because we usually see them on holidays, and we’re on their way down to see Uncle Robb, Aunt Jeyne, and Torrhen.”

“So how come we’re going there now?”

“Because that’s where Aunt Arya is getting married.”

Sansa braced herself for another question, but apparently that was all Sarra had for now. She doubted that they’d make it out of Riverrun before Sarra asked another one though.

* * *

Sansa pulled into her parent’s driveway, identifying the owner of each car as she did so.

Her parents’, Arya’s, Robb’s, Rickon’s, and Theon’s. Bran and Jon weren’t here yet.

Sansa breathed out a sigh of relief. Everyone had seen Sarra before. It was just them seeing her with Jon so near that worried her.

She didn’t know how to explain to everyone that she let them believe a lie for nearly six years.

“Uncle Theon!” Sarra squealed, alerting Sansa to the stream of people that were coming out of the front door.

“There’s my favorite princess!” he exclaimed, pulling her from the back seat. Sansa let Theon take her out and spin her around while she let herself breath.

This was her nightmare coming to life.

By the time Arya and Torrhen reached the car, Sansa was out of the car and smiling.

She could do this. She’d be fine.

* * *

The last time Sansa had been in her childhood bedroom was the night she slept with Jon. When she wrote him the letter asking if it was real and he never responded.

Sansa could barely stand in the doorway without feeling a flood of emotions about that night and the weeks that followed.

“This is where I slept when I was your age,” Sansa told Sarra, setting her daughter’s bag on the desk chair.

“It’s pink,” Sarra observed.

“It was my favorite color when I was younger.”

“You never wear it.”

“You’re right. I don’t,” Sansa said softly.

“When’s the party?”

“It’s in a few days. We have a bunch of little parties leading up to the big one.”

“Can I have a bunch of little parties before my birthday next year?”

“We’ll talk about it when it’s closer to your birthday.”

The questions continued as Sansa and Sarra went through their nighttime routine and only stopped when Sansa agreed to reading a chapter before she tucked her in.

It was two and a half chapters later when Sansa sneaked quietly out of the bedroom and into Arya’s, where she’d be sleeping.

She was unsurprised to find Arya still awake and sitting on her floor with a tumbler of Scotch.

“Sarra’s asleep?”

“Yup,” Sansa muttered, snagging the glass and taking a sip.

“That bad?”

“It’s not, yet. When’s Jon getting here?”

“Theon’s picking him up in the morning. They're crashing in the basement.”

Sansa nodded, taking another sip of the Scotch before passing it back.

“Will you be okay? With him and Sarra?”

Sansa took a deep breath. Arya knew the truth of the situation. She had been the one Sansa called in tears when she peed on the stick and still hadn’t heard back from Jon.

At the time she unfairly blamed Arya. She screamed that it was all her fault. If she had never went snooping through her bag and never gave Jon that letter, none of this would’ve happened. Sansa would’ve never slept with him that night and she never would’ve gotten pregnant.

She would’ve never had Sarra.

Arya was with her through the whole nine months though, and kept her secret for the last six years.

Arya had become her best friend in a way that her parents had always said she would when they were younger, but Sansa had never believed.

“It’ll be fine. Probably.”

“Okay, worse case scenario. Go.”

“She and Jon are in the same room and everyone immediately knows she’s his and that I’ve lied for six years.”

“I don’t think everyone is going to make that connection that quickly, but okay. But the lie’s going to have to come out eventually. Six years sucks, but ten years? Eighteen? That’ll be much harder to explain away.”

“So you’re saying I need to tell everyone?”

“I can’t believe I’m the voice of reason. Yes. What happens when Sarra gets old enough to start asking about her dad? And she’s smart—she’s going to start asking sooner rather than later.”

“Ugh, I know. But what do I say to Jon? He’s the one who never called after that weekend.”

“I can’t help you there. I _can_ try to run interference until the wedding, but then you’re on your own.”

Sansa sighed and took the tumbler back.

“This is good Scotch. What’re you doing sitting on your floor drinking good Scotch alone two days before your wedding?”

“Seven hells, don’t remind me,” she groaned, flopping back.

“Erm, is there something we need to discuss? That should not be your reaction to a mention of your wedding.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Arya…”

“I love Gendry. I’m excited to spend the rest of my life with him. It’s not the marriage part—though the term _wife_ still sets my teeth on edge—it’s the wedding itself.”

“What’s wrong with the wedding? I thought you’d made your peace with Mum planning it.”

This time it was Arya who sighed.

“I did, but it’s just not me. I think…” Arya trailed off, draining the last of the whisky from the glass.

“Think what?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Arya. You’re getting married in two days. If there’s something you’re not comfortable with, you need to tell Mum. Now.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I just think… I think Mum thought she’d be planning your wedding, not mine. I think she forgets which daughter her and Dad’ll be walking down the aisle.”

Sansa’s heart sank. She never considered her parents in everything that had happened in the six years. Not when she found out she was pregnant, or when her and Willas called off the engagement. She forgot how excited Catelyn had been when she called after Willas proposed. She’d forgotten how Catelyn had poured over bridal magazines and had set up all the appointments for venue viewings and bridal salons.

All things that had to be cancelled.

All experiences Catelyn missed out on, because Arya and Gendry were getting married in the backyard and Arya was wearing what she called a _bridal one-piece_ , which was basically a jumpsuit, which she picked out herself without Catelyn or anyone else there to see her try things on.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

“It’s not your fault. And it’s fine. I can deal with it. I’m just crabby today.”

“I can talk to Mum if you want.”

“No, the only serious thing I want you talking to Mum about is Sarra and Jon. But, since you’ve let it go on this long, Jon needs to be the first to know.”

“Yeah, okay, fair point.”

“So you’ll tell him?”

“I guess I’ll have to, huh?”

“You could wait until the ceremony and then everyone will be talking about that instead of me and Gendry.”

“Ha. Nice try.”


	6. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for disappearing. I ended up hosting an impromptu party for friends who came in from out of state and forgot completely about posting this chapter. I should be back to once a day now.

This was only the third time Jon had returned to Winterfell since he left ten years ago, but this time was significantly harder than the other two.

The first time was Robb announcing that Jeyne was pregnant, and the second time was when Robb’s son was born and Jon was named his protector. That had been fine. It was a small thing with only a handful of people in the hospital room—him, Robb, Catelyn, Ned, Jeyne, her parents, and her sister, who was Torrhen’s other protector.

This time would be much worse.

This time it wouldn’t just be parents and Robb. It would be the whole Stark clan, including Sansa. The Stark he’d been avoiding since she’d run away after they slept together six years ago.

Jon stepped off the plane and shouldered his only bag.

He could handle this. It would be fine. Arya promised that he wouldn’t be put in any awkward situations with her and he trusted Arya. Between her and Theon, he was hoping to only see her at dinner and at the ceremony. He could spend the rest of the time at the gym and far away from her.

“Hey, are you Jon Snow? The boxer?” a man asked.

“Oh, em, yeah, I am.”

“I saw your fight the other night. I’m a huge fan. Would you mind signing this for me?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Here you go,” Jon muttered, signing the magazine the man was holding.

“Thanks. Good luck in your next fight.”

“Oh, right, cheers.”

It wasn’t the first time Jon had been recognized in public, nor was it the first time he’d been asked to sign something, but it was still new and unexpected.

When he started boxing, that day Gendry took him to the gym, Jon never thought it would become his career, but someone saw him spar at his gym after he left Winterfell and all of a sudden, he was doing televised fights.

He’d never been good at something before, not the way he was at boxing. The ease of it made him feel better—lighter—than he’d ever felt. It made the harder parts—getting noticed by people, getting asked to sign things, having to put on a face for the public—tolerable.

Jon met Theon in the carpark, cringing as a second person, one within ear and eye shot of Theon, recognized him and congratulated him on his recent win.

“Look who’s a big-shot boxer now! You’re getting recognized and everything!” Theon crowed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jon groaned, getting into the car before Theon could announce it any louder and others would recognize him.

“Watched your fight the other night. You’re really good.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you ready for this?”

“Arya getting married? No.”

“I meant seeing Sansa. And Sarra, for the first time.”

“Sarra?” Jon’s first thought was it was Theon’s girlfriend. Or Bran’s or Rickon’s, because that would be news that he may not have heard or might have forgotten.

“Sansa’s daughter?” Theon said slowly. Jon’s heart felt like it was going to force itself through his chest with how hard it was beating.

“So… she married Willas, then?” He dreaded hearing the answer, but it would be so much easier to know than to question everything that happened that weekend.

“No. She got pregnant before they got married and they had some kind of fight, or something. I never really got the details on it. But she didn’t marry him.”

“Oh.”

“Wait, you didn’t know? Any of that?”

Jon shrugged. He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t want to explain that he explicitly told Arya to keep any mention of Sansa out of her weekly updates so he was six years behind on what was happening with her.

Plus, it was easier to believe that she freaked out after that night, went home, married Willas, and lived happily ever after.

It was easier to believe that she wasn’t an option. That they weren’t an option.

* * *

Jon was stretched out on the futon—Theon had claimed the pullout—avoiding the whole Stark clan. He didn’t want to see Sansa, and he certainly didn’t want to see her daughter. He didn’t want to see proof of her and Willas.

He’d been prepared to see Sansa. He’d made his peace with what she did to him six years ago, but something about seeing her with a daughter, a child, when that was what broke them up the first time, set him off kilter.

He had no idea how to feel about this, or her.

He didn’t know how to react.

Jon craved to be in the gym, the ring, but he already checked the hours of the one in Winterfell and knew it had closed hours ago. He was sure Gendry would spar with him in the basement if he asked, but the last thing he wanted was to give Gendry a black eye or anything worse two days before he was set to marry Arya.

He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face.

This made the week so much harder.

* * *

Jon was up before everyone else in the house. He was doing his best to sneak around the kitchen quietly and get his run started before anyone else was awake.

“Oh, shit, you scared me!” he heard behind him. The voice sent waves through him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, screwing the cap on his water bottle.

Sansa stood on the last stair, dressed similarly to him, and also holding an empty water bottle.

“Going for a run?” he asked stupidly.

“Yeah. You?”

He nodded. He wanted to ask what route she was going to take, but he couldn’t form the words. He didn’t want her to think that he was inviting her to run with him. He actually wanted the opposite. He wanted to know her route so that he could go the opposite way.

“Have a good run,” he said instead, heading for the door, figuring if he could get a head start there would be no way they’d end up running together.

Jon was only planning on doing a few miles—just enough to clear his head. He’d do a run, clear his head, grab some breakfast and head to the gym until they kicked him out or until he was too fatigued to train anymore.

That was until he realized he’d already gone five miles and it would be another five miles back to the Starks’.

The run felt good—the stretch in his legs, the burn in his lungs. He enjoyed the pain; it was the same type he felt in the ring. The type that made him push harder.

He was drenched in sweat when he returned to the Stark house.

He’d been hoping to just sneak down to the shower before he left for the gym, but there was someone on the stairs next to the door that led to the basement.

Even with his exhaustion from his run, he knew there was only one person who could have auburn hair like that.

“Hi,” he said gently, unsure of how to approach this.

He’d always wanted children, but he had no idea how to deal with one that belonged to his ex-girlfriend.

“Hi,” she replied, looking up from her picture book.

“You must be Sarra?” He hoped he was remembering her name right. She nodded and he exhaled. “I’m Jon.”

“I know. Uncle Theon said you fight people.”

“Uh…” Jon scratched his head. “Yeah, I do. But with gloves and helmets, so it’s safe.”

“Do you fight bad guys?”

“Sometimes,” he shrugged, assuming not everyone he’d faced in the ring had a stellar track record.

“So you’re like a superhero?”

“Uh, not quite.”

She squinted at him like she didn’t understand his answer, but he was saved before he had to answer any more questions.

“Sarra, come eat breakfast,” Sansa called. Jon froze.

“Are you eating breakfast too?” she asked him.

“Not right now. I’ve gotta shower first.”

Sarra nodded, like she accepted his answer, before hopping down the few stairs and heading for the kitchen.

Jon ran into the basement before anyone came out to ask who she’d been talking to.

In the shower, Jon replayed the conversation he’d had with Sansa’s daughter in his head, trying to figure out what felt off about it. Some part of it had set him on edge and the fact he couldn’t put his finger quite on it made him antsy—made him itch for a fight.

It wasn’t until he was out of the shower and upstairs making breakfast that something clicked.

It was while he watched Torrhen argue with Jeyne in the living room—something about TV time. He wasn’t sure what it was that made him put it together—Torrhen and Sarra didn’t look much alike since both of them inherited most of their looks from their mothers, but something in the height or the tilt of the head or question in the voice caused Jon to realize why the conversation with Sarra had put him off.

He pulled out his phone to text Theon immediately.

**How old is Sansa’s daughter?**

 

**Bout three months younger than Torrhen.**

**Why?**

**Just thought she’d be younger.**

When Theon had said Sansa had had a daughter yesterday, for some reason Jon had pictured infant. He’d pictured toddler. Someone far younger. But she was just a little younger than Torrhen, which meant she must be five, or close to. She was school age.

Jon couldn’t help but wonder if she was pregnant the last time he’d seen her. Or if her and Willas celebrated her return with a weekend in bed and that’s how Sarra came to be.

He wondered if she reacted the same way she had the last time, when she’d thought she was pregnant almost ten years ago.

He wondered what caused Willas and her to break up, if it was a disagreement over the pregnancy like Theon had suggested.

Jon let his thoughts guide his work out in the gym—beating the bag as the thoughts beat his head.  He couldn’t get them out of his head the way he normally could. He couldn’t clear his mind--every time he thought he had something had him circling back to Sansa or her daughter, so he formed the rhythm around them, because then at least he wasn’t being consumed by them.

* * *

Arya was waiting for him on the futon when he got back from the gym, several hours later.

“Gendry said you were at the gym,” she started, leaning forward seriously. Jon’s skin itched—not just because he was due for a second shower—but because a serious Arya was never good.

“Uh, yeah. Just training.”

“On the bags?”

“Mostly. Why?”

“You’re my man of honor. I don’t want you standing next to me with a busted face.”

“Fair enough. No sparring and I’ll be careful with the speedbag, okay?”

“Yeah, sounds good. Thanks.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to see my little sister upset on her big day,” he joked, shoving her lightly.

He wanted to ask about Sansa and Sarra but he didn’t know how. And he didn’t know how much he actually wanted to know.

“Have you seen Sansa yet?”

“Just this morning. Why?”

“I was hoping you’d gotten it over with so the rest of this week wouldn’t be awkward for the two of you. I mean, I don’t really want you hiding out down here until the ceremony.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Good, because we have the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night and drinks after for the cool people.”

“The cool people? Does that mean I’m out?”

“No, you ass. It means the wedding party—us and Theon.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. We’re going to play some games tonight after the kids go to bed if you want to come up.”

“Yeah, we’ll see. Can I shower now? I smell.”

“Oh, yeah, a’course. See you later,” she said, bouncing off the futon and heading for the stairs. “And I better see you later,” she added pointedly.

 


	7. Sansa

Sansa was curled up on Arya’s trundle bed, still tired from the night before—she had stayed up later than she was used to playing poker.

It had been the first time she’d properly hung out with Jon in six years. She kept expecting it to be awkward between all of them, but with the rest of the group as a buffer it felt like the good old days, back before everything happened between them the first time.

It reminded her of how good of friends her and Jon used to be, before they started dating in high school, when Robb first met him.

Sansa thought that maybe she should find Jon. Last night had gone well. Maybe they could go out for coffee and she could tell him all about Sarra.

Maybe they could be friends again.

Just when she was about to get up, Sarra bounded in with a tablet.

“Whose tablet is that?” she asked.

“Uncle Theon’s. Look,” Sarra said, nearly dropping it on her stomach.

“Oof. What am I looking at?”

“Jon. Uncle Theon and Torrhen showed me.”

The video showed what Sansa was pretty sure was a boxing ring with two people bouncing, one in each corner. She’d seen boxing matches before—clips of them on her feeds and on the news when something big happened, but this looked like a whole fight.

Sansa was going to ask what Sarra had meant when she said this was a video of Jon when the announcer said that Jon Snow was in the left corner.

She was sitting up suddenly.

“They said he’s a fighter. I asked, and he said he sometimes fights bad guys but he’s not a superhero.”

Sansa heard her daughter’s comment as if they were on opposite sides of the house. She was too focused on watching the father of her daughter get punched in the head, until he pushed the other guy into the ropes and started beating him.

She dimly noticed the way her stomach clenched every time Jon took a hit, but that was just because he was the father of her daughter. And because he used to be her best friend.

“Uncle Theon said he won this one.”

“Did he?” she asked distractedly.

Sansa closed the video and clicked over to the Jon Snow channel. She was surprised to see how many videos of his fights there were. And videos of just him too—training in the gym, a few of him doing interviews, a few of him doing warm ups and going over his gym routine.

Then she saw the number of subscribers his channel had—just over 10,000.

She also saw that his channel was started about five years ago.

“Did Uncle Theon say anything else about him?”

“No. Oh! He said to bring it back.”

“Okay, here, why don’t you run this back to him then.”

Sarra took the tablet and ran for the door. Sansa was out soon after, looking for Theon or Arya. Whoever she could get her hands on first.

She found Arya coming out of the bathroom in her bathrobe first.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Jon is a semi-famous boxer?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know if I’d say _semi-famous_. I doubt anyone south of The Neck knows who he is, which is why you probably never heard about it. Well, that and the fact that you don’t do sports.”

“I just heard about it _from my daughter_ ,” Sansa huffed.

“Oh, yeah, I figured you’d find out from Theon or Robb.”

“Theon told Sarra. Showed her a video on YouTube, which she then showed me.”

“That’s not good.”

“No shit.”

“So, um, yeah. He’s a boxer. He’s actually good too.”

“Is it safe?”

“You’d have to ask Gendry that one. Or Jon.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows and sighed. She had no idea how to react to this kind of information.

“Wait, you’re not… you’re not reconsidering telling Jon, are you? Because you need to, even if he’s a boxer. Even if it’s not safe. He needs to know.”

“Arya, how can I tell a man who gets paid to be punched in the head that he’s the father of my daughter?”

“He’s still Jon. Him being a boxer doesn’t make him different. Or dangerous.”

Sansa closed her eyes. It was far too early for this. She hadn’t even had her coffee yet.

“Yeah, alright, okay. I can’t think about that now. I need to go yell at Theon for showing boxing videos to my five-year-old kid.”

* * *

Sansa couldn’t get the idea of Jon being a boxer out of her head for the rest of the day. She kept seeing flashes of the video every time she let her mind drift.

She was still focusing on that at the rehearsal dinner that night.

She saw Jon across the room, and immediately the image of him shirtless and in the boxing shorts shot into her head. That was soon followed by the image of his naked torso from six years ago, thin and lean with scars.

He looked different, she realized, than he did six years ago.

Then, he had been thin. He’d still been healing, she knew now. He was dealing with his depression and his anxiety in a way she assumed he wasn’t now. He had still had muscle, but he wasn’t packed with it. He’d been wiry and angular. That wasn’t how she’d describe him now. Now, he was sturdy, muscular. Strapping, even. His shoulders hadn’t been as broad as they were now. She could see the difference in his body even with him in a suit jacket. She could see the width of his shoulders and the lines of his muscles beneath the fabric. She could see the way the jacket tapered in at his waist and how tightly his pants fit his thighs.

Sansa had always found Jon attractive, but damn. He looked like he was in much better shape now than he had been six years ago.

She couldn’t help but see those muscles as more than attractive, though. She kept seeing his arms extending in a punch and how it visibly reverberated on the other man’s body.

Arya had said he was still Jon, but she could see the difference in how he looked and how he moved.

She wasn’t sure that he was the exact same Jon he had been six years ago.

* * *

She had claimed a chair off in a corner that was near enough the area where Sarra and Torrhen were playing so that she could keep an eye on them without being in the middle of the crowd.

She knew exactly where Jon was—across the room in a different corner—which was why Sansa had picked the corner she had.

Sansa wasn’t avoiding Jon, per se, but she definitely wasn’t seeking him out either. She was still processing the information she’d learned that morning. She’d been so ready to tell him, but something about him being a boxer made her pause. She knew Gendry boxed at the gym, but that wasn’t quite the same as being a proper boxer. She needed to figure out how she felt about that before she told Jon, but she knew if she spoke to him the truth would probably come out.

Because she wanted to tell Jon. She wanted things to be okay between them. She just had to wrap her head around him being a boxer first.

Sansa thought she could maybe do it tonight, after the dinner, when they went out for drinks. She could pull him aside, ask him a few questions about boxing, enough to put her mind at ease, and then tell him. That would work.

“How you doing?” Arya asked, plopping down in the seat next to her, causing Sansa to jump.

“Fine,” Sansa shrugged. She knew exactly what Arya had come over for.

“Jon’s sulking just like you are.”

“I’m not sulking. I’m keeping an eye on Sarra.”

“When was the last time Sarra even got into trouble?”

“She had to stay in for recess last week.”

“Uh huh, okay. Still. There are plenty of people here to keep an eye on her. She’s not getting into any trouble.”

Sansa fought to keep her eyes from rolling. Arya would pick apart her logic like this.

“He deserves to know.”

“I know. I’ve got a plan to tell him tonight, when we go out for drinks. Less of a crowd,” Sansa explained.

“I guess that’s fine. Have you thought about what you’ll say to Sarra? Or anyone else?”

“No. I just need to tell Jon first. I can only take one confession at a time.”

“Do you have an idea for custody? Or visitation or whatever?”

“I haven’t thought that far. Plus, what if Jon doesn’t even want to be a father anymore?” Sansa asked, voicing a fear she hadn’t even realized she’d had.

Arya scoffed.

“Of course he wants to be Sarra’s father.”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder to where she remembered seeing Jon, but the table was empty. She wondered how Arya could be so sure. She wondered if Arya was right.

* * *

“Excuse me,” she muttered, ducking out of the ladies’ a few minutes later. There was a person pacing the length of hall in front of the restrooms.

It took Sansa a second to realize that it was Jon pacing.

She opened her mouth to tell him that she wanted to talk to him. They were already pretty much alone. She could ask him about boxing now and ease into the truth of the situation.

She didn’t get a chance though, because Jon’s darkened face stopped her cold.

“Is it true?”

His voice was rough as gravel, and she felt the smile slide off her face.

“Jon—” she started, trying to keep her voice calm. His eyes were dark and Sansa couldn’t remember ever seeing him look like that. It made the words fade, she was so focused on how he looked that she couldn’t remember what she wanted to say.

 “Is. It. True.”

“Yes, yes, it’s true. But Jon, you have to understa—I was going to tell you tonig—"

Sansa didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence because Jon was already stalking away.


	8. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to post one yesterday, what with it being a holiday and all, so here's two today. I should have it finished and posted by this weekend.

Jon wasn’t thinking as he ran out of the banquet hall. He was sprinting down the street in dress shoes, but none of that registered.

When Theon came up to him and said that he needed to know what he’d just overheard, Jon had assumed it was something about Gendry or Arya. The idea that it had been about him and Sansa never crossed his mind.

He had to get out of there—away from her and away from what she’d confirmed.

He had to get those words out of his head.

He needed a gym.

He needed a fight.

Jon slowed as he came upon the main downtown road of Winterfell. He could feel his skin buzzing and a ringing in his ears, the same way he did before he entered the ring.

The first few buildings he passed were all shops that were closed. He found himself purposefully shouldering several men on the street that he passed, hoping someone would be stupid enough or drunk enough to take a swing at him, but the worst he got was some grumbling.

Finally, Jon found what he was looking for. The pub he’d gotten absolutely pissed in almost ten years ago. The one he’d driven away from when he never should have gotten behind a wheel.

Jon hadn’t been back since that night.

Opening the door was like traveling through time. The place hadn’t changed in ten years. The floor was still sticky. The lights were still half burnt out. The same glass bottles were behind the bar. The patrons all looked the same—haggard, tired, pissed off at the world.

Jon immediately stepped up to the bar and sat beside the drunkest looking man.

“What’ll it be?”

Jon’s instincts immediately said _whisky—the strongest you have_. But years of not drinking, years of hearing that voice reminding him of how it would affect his medication, years of shame for the incident that happened the last time he left this pub left him voiceless.

“Club soda,” he said instead, quietly.

The bartender didn’t bat an eye and any other night Jon would’ve been thankful for that, but his hands were still clenched into fists and his feet were bouncing on the rails of the stool.

He downed it like it was a shot and the man next to him snorted.

The ringing in his ears intensified.

“You’ve got something to say?”

“How ‘bout you go somewhere else with your kiddie drink?”

“How ‘bout you make me?”

The man turned to face him, the glint Jon was hoping to find gleaming in his eye.

“You lookin’ for a fight, pretty boy?”

Jon grinned at the man—the way he did sometimes before a match—and found himself to be on the ground before he knew what happened.

He was up quickly though, and bouncing like he did the ring. The man may have gotten the first swing, but Jon was sober and a boxer and damn he needed a fight.

* * *

“Jon, where in the ever-loving fuck have you been?” Arya yelled and Jon winced, hanging his head against the phone box.

“Arya, you can yell at me all you want later, but listen a minute. I need you to pick me up.”

“Where are you?”

“Jail.”

“JON, WH—”

“I got in a fight. I need you to pick me up. We can talk about it later.”

“Fine.”

Jon heard the phone click off and he was shuffled off to the holding cell.

* * *

“Jon Snow, you’ve been released.”

Jon groaned and pushed himself up from the bench. A small part of him would rather stay there than face Arya’s wrath.

“Your face!” she yelled as soon as she saw him in the lobby. Jon touched the cut on his lip, nearly having forgotten it was there.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“The one thing I asked you, Jon,” she gritted out as she led him out to the car.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I just—I…”

“I know. Sansa told me.”

Jon stopped in his tracks, nearly stumbling off the curb.

“Did you know?”

“What?” Arya asked, ducking down to look through the open car door from where she sat in the driver’s seat.

“Did you know? Did you know that Sarra’s…” _Mine_ , he wanted to say. _Did you know she’s mine?_ But the word got stuck in his throat.

“Get in the car, Jon, then we’ll talk.”

Jon huffed but slid in anyway, because if he didn’t, he knew he’d probably just end up back at that pub itching for another fight.

“Yes, I knew. She told me when she found out.”

“Did everyone else know? Has this been some dirty, dark Stark secret for the past six years?”

“No. Just me.”

He took a deep breath, the way he had been taught in therapy ten years ago.

That helped, at least. It wasn’t that they decided he didn’t deserve to know or that he wasn’t capable of helping. No one knew.

“I told her to tell you initially, but then it got so far away that it didn’t make sense anymore. And then this weekend happened.” He saw her shoulders shrug from the corner of his eye. “She was going to tell you tonight, after the dinner—"

“I can’t talk about it right now,” he muttered, turning towards the window.

He didn’t want to hear about how Arya and Sansa have discussed for the last six years whether or not to tell him that he was a father. He didn’t want to hear anything about Sansa right now.

“Fine. But you’re wearing make up tomorrow. I told you I don’t want you standing next to me with a busted face.”

If Jon had been in any of a better mood, he may have laughed or snorted, but he was still stuck on the fact that he was a _fucking father_.

* * *

Jon was up far earlier than he should’ve been for how late he was up the night before, but he did not want to run into any of the Starks until the actual ceremony. He packed up his suit, his toiletries, and all of his gym things. The gym had showers. He’d just get ready at the gym. Stay out of everyone’s way at the house until the ceremony. They didn’t need him underfoot.

* * *

Jon was in the ring with a trainer when he heard shouting.

“Ma’am, you can’t be in here. We’re closed,” another trainer was saying loud enough for Jon to pause mid jab.

“Clearly you’re not—you’ve people in here.” Jon immediately lowered his arms at the sound of that voice.

“He doesn’t count, that’s a—”

“I know who he is. Jon!”

Gods, his name coming from her mouth still made his heart pound. Even after everything.

“Ma’am, you can’t—”

Jon couldn’t help but stare as Sansa approached. She was already dressed for the wedding in her navy-blue dress and hair braided down her back. Seven hells did she look beautiful. Arya knew what she was doing when she picked the bridesmaids dress. She knew Jon loved Sansa in navy silk. He noticed the slit up the skirt as she strode across the gym and Jon nearly forgot all of the history between them.

He only realized what she was doing after she’d already ducked between the ropes.

“Ma’am, you definitely can’t be in here,” the trainer in the ring with him said sternly, moving towards her.

“Please stop calling me _ma’am_ ,” he heard Sansa mutter before striding across the ring and right up to him. “You ran away before I had a chance to explain,” Sansa started, voice quieter than he expected given how she charged into the ring.

“I don’t want to hear it Sansa.” He edged away from her, not wanting to hear about how she executively made the decision that he was not going to be a father to his daughter.

“I don’t get how I’m the bad guy when you’re the one who never called after that night.” This time her voice was cold, hard, determined—what he was expecting.

“Never— _Never called_? I’m the bad guy because _I never called_? You up and left without goodbye that morning! You _fled_ back to your fiancé at the first chance!”

“What?”

Jon couldn’t believe how honestly shocked she looked, recoiling as if this was news to her. As if she remembered that weekend differently than he did.

“You snuck me out of your room and that was it.”

“No, no, no it wasn’t. I wrote you a letter.”

Sansa stepped towards him and he stepped back, like a dance except they were in a boxing ring and he was in shorts and covered in sweat while she looked beautiful in her bridesmaid dress.

“Yeah, I remember that letter. You had a dream that made you second guess your engagement but after sleeping with me you realized that you were meant for Willas after all,” he grumbled, embarrassed by how easily he could recall the words from that letter. As if he didn’t destroy it after she’d left that weekend.

“No! I wrote a _second_ letter.”

That gave Jon pause.

“I never got a letter,” he said softly, feeling all that anger and fear defuse slightly for the first time in years.

“Wait, what?” Sansa stilled for the first time since she crawled into the ring with him.

“I never got a letter,” he repeated with sudden panic swelling in him. He hadn’t been in a great place after that weekend. He rarely looked at his mail since he paid all of his bills online. He generally threw it all into the bin without seriously sorting it.

He would’ve remembered seeing a letter from Sansa though. He would’ve noticed a pink envelope.

He would’ve.

“You never got the letter?” she whispered and Jon almost crumbled.

“I…what’d it say?” he asked, crossing his gloved hands across his chest.

“I—” she started but her phone ringing cut her off. “It’s Arya. She wants to know where the hell we are.”

Jon glanced at the clock on the wall and realized why Sansa had come in her dress and already made up. The ceremony was in less than an hour.

“Shit, I’ve gotta shower,” he muttered, yanking a glove off.

“I’ll meet you by the car.”

He held the ropes for her to slip out before climbing down and heading for the locker room.

“Hey, Jon?”

He turned, heart beating as if he was facing down an opponent in the ring.

“We’ll talk later, after the ceremony?”

“Yeah. Yeah, after the ceremony. We’ll talk.”

* * *

Jon hurried up the stairs of the Stark house, damp hair tied into a knot. Ned and Cat were supposed to be walking her down the aisle in less than twenty minutes and he hadn’t seen her yet. Given her his man of honor pep talk he’d prepared. Or, rather, thought of preparing, before Sansa had surprised him at the gym.

He stumbled into Arya’s bedroom only to be met with gasps and shrieking.

“Oh shut up, he’s my man of honor,” Arya snapped from where she was standing near the window. “And you’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Jon stammered.

“Well, you’re here now. Let’s get me married.” She downed the rest of her champagne—Jon at least thought it was champagne, given the flute, but he couldn’t imagine her drinking champagne like a typical bride.

Everyone else started to file out, congratulating Arya again and muttering about where Sansa disappeared to. Jon started to follow them, but Arya caught his wrist.

“Jon, I need to tell you something,” she said quietly, urgently. He stilled immediately. “It’s about last night.”

“I tried to over it the best I could. I’m sorry, again. I don’t…”

“No, that’s not it. It’s… Look, Sansa found out about you being a boxer.”

“Erm, okay?”

“It freaked her out. She’s worried about the dangers of it—about the violence, I think. When she hears about what happened last night…”

Jon felt his blood run cold. _She thinks I’m dangerous—that I could hurt her._

_Hurt Sarra._

When he became a boxer, none of this crossed his mind. He’d never considered any repercussions.

He’d never considered the idea that it could affect his relationship—potential relationship—with Sansa. Or with his child.


	9. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been super tired after work this week and didn't have a chance to post anything, so here's three chapters. The last two should be up this weekend.

Sansa tried not to stare at Jon in his suit, but he was stood in front of her and she was supposed to be looking in that direction anyway.

It was just she had seen what was under that suit and it brought back so many memories of that weekend.

Before she left, before she sneaked him out of the room, they were happy. She was happy. They were good together—they _had been_ good together. Willas had never made her feel the way Jon did—not just physically, but the heart-beating, blushing, butterflies feeling too. Sure, she’d had that with Willas in the beginning but it died out before they’d even gotten engaged. She’d dated Jon for years and that feeling never went away. Six years ago, she’d felt it again. Now, she felt it still.

Jon looked different and he moved differently than he did six years ago, but he was still Jon.

She saw it today in the controlled way he stopped mid punch when she walked into the room. He wasn’t the dangerous man she was making him out to be in her head. He was just Jon.

Sansa glanced away from Jon, to where Sarra was sitting with Torrhen and Jeyne. Her daughter grinned and waved when she caught her eyes.

_Shit. Sarra._

She’d forgotten about Sarra.

She didn’t know how to explain it to Sarra.

How did she tell her five-year-old daughter that the man she just met was her father?

But, no, she was getting ahead of herself.

Jon just found out. Maybe he didn’t want to be a father—not with his newfound fame as a boxer.

Maybe he didn’t want to be _Sarra’s_ father.

Sansa had to stop thinking about this—about Jon.

Sansa refocused on the ceremony just as Gendry finished his vows and Arya started hers. She listened to her sister pledge her loyalty and heart to her best friend, and she could easily imagine saying those same words to Jon. Pledging herself to him. Building a home, a family with him.

She remembered all of those times they talked about it, back when she was at university. All the plans they’d had. Everything they’d talked about doing after she graduated.

They’d imagined a future together once.

The sound of clapping, cheering, and laughing brought her back. Arya had leapt into Gendry’s arms with her legs wrapped around his waist.

Sansa followed them out slowly, trying to keep her eyes off Jon’s broad shoulders.

She couldn’t think about Jon this away, about the plans they’d made once upon a time. Not until they’d talked about Sarra.

* * *

 

Sansa kept trying to catch Jon’s eye during pictures, but as soon as he was done, he was back into the house while the rest of the posed.

Arya, however, kept staring at her between pictures. Sansa quickly picked up on the fact that Arya needed to talk to her, but she couldn’t imagine what about. Jon found out. Sansa promised to talk to him more later. Sansa had no idea what Arya was finding more important than grinning at her husband.

Sansa was on her way inside when Arya caught up to her.

“Sansa, I need to tell you something. Jon got into a fight last night.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow, confused at why this was so important. He was a boxer—wasn’t that his job?

“So?”

“When he found out about Sarra, he ran off and found himself a fight. Not a match, a _fight_. At a bar. I had to pick him up from jail last night.”

Sansa’s stomach dropped, suddenly remembering the cut on his lip and the bruise near his eye. She’d just assumed that he’d gotten both of them while training, not in an actual fight.

Sansa had made her peace with him being a boxer, but him getting into a fight? Running away and actively seeking one? She didn’t know how she felt about that.

When Sansa didn’t say anything, Arya continued in a rush.

“It’s not who Jon is. That’s not normal for him. That…that was a one-off because he’d just found out about Sarra.”

“Okay,” Sansa muttered, mostly to shut Arya up. She was still processing.

“Okay? Okay, as in this won’t change your perception of him?”

“Seven hells, I don’t know, Arya. Give me a chance to think.”

“He’s still Jon,” Arya said with a tone of finality before heading into the house where everyone else was waiting.

* * *

The events of the reception quickly swept Sansa up and away from her thoughts of Jon and what Jon was up to last night. She was focused on Arya and Gendry, on watching Sarra, on enjoying being home for the first time in six years.

* * *

After dinner, cake, and speeches, Sansa found herself sitting at one of the tables under the tent pitched in the backyard. The wedding people had brought in a temporary dance floor, which the kids were loving. Sarra and Torrhen were jumping and laughing at the corner, singing along to some pop song Sansa couldn’t believe Arya was allowing to have play.

She was sipping a glass of wine and for the first time the conversation she and Arya had come back to her mind.

Jon ran away and found a fight last night. He got information he couldn’t handle and ran to fight someone. What he did made Sansa uncomfortable. Fighting in the ring was one thing—she could excuse that—but a bar fight was something else entirely.

Arya had said that it was a one-off, and Sansa could probably believe that, given his history.

She remembered hearing him explain how he got in his accident ten years ago—a one-time thing that made him decide to get help. She remembered how he said he wasn’t handling their break up well. He didn’t handle finding out about Sarra well—probably because of how he found out.

 _But still. Still_ , she thought. He can’t go off and do something reckless and stupid every time he faces something he can’t handle. Not if he wanted to be in Sarra’s life.

No, she had to talk to him about this, about handling unexpected situations, before she made any executive decisions.

It was several hours later when Sarra was begging for another slice of cake that Sansa caught sight of Jon for the first time. He was standing in the back, near the table where everyone wrote their well wishes in a book. He had a glass in his hand and he looked perfectly content to just be watching and not participate.

If Sansa hadn’t promised Sarra a piece of cake, she would’ve approached him, but she couldn’t disappear on Sarra.

She decided that after she dropped off the cake and made sure someone had an eye on Sarra, she’d find him and talk to him.

After picking up a small piece, she found Catelyn sitting at a nearby table and recruited her to keep an eye on Sarra while she went to talk to Jon. She didn’t say who she was going to find—just that she was stepping inside for a few minutes. Telling her mum that she had to talk to Jon would mean she’d have to admit why and who Jon was to Sarra.

Sansa headed back for the table she’d seen Jon near just in time to see him rush through the backdoor. Theon followed soon after, speaking quickly and indistinctly.

Sansa stilled, thinking she would find him later on, but then her eye caught on a scrap of faded pink paper left on the table with the well wishes book. Sansa recognized that paper—though it hadn’t been that pale the last time she’d seen it.

Sansa ran into the house.

She found Jon pacing in the basement. Theon was leaning against the back of the sofa looking less frazzled than Jon did.

“Jon,” she breathed, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Yeah, I’m out,” Theon muttered, pushing off the sofa and loping upstairs. Sansa watched him leave before turning back towards Jon, who was still pacing the length of the basement.

“Jon…” she said again, just as quietly.

“Theon found your letter,” he whispered, holding it between two fingers.

The delicacy with which he held it shocked Sansa. She expected to see it crumpled in his fist or ripped to shreds. Not held with care.

“Where’d he find it?” Sansa asked, staying rooted at the base of the stairs.

“In the sofa. He was folding it up and saw it.”

“In the sofa? It’s been _in the sofa_ for six years?” Jon shrugged, still pacing. “It must’ve fallen…” she muttered, realizing what must have happened all those years ago. “I had an early flight, and I wrote you a letter because you were still asleep. I set it next to your pillow…” As she spoke, she moved to the sofa, the place where she’d placed the letter six years ago, a ghost of the memory in front of her.

“I must’ve moved in my sleep. I must’ve…” Jon trailed off, stilling and staring at the sofa. “You put it _right_ next to me. Next to my head. You assumed there was no way I could’ve missed it. No wonder…”

“I can’t believe it’s been in the sofa this whole time.”

“Sansa… I’m sorry. Everything you’ve had to go through… it’s all my fault. I’m so sorry,” Jon said in an undertone.

“Jon, no… No, it’s not. It’s something neither of us control. It’s not your fault. It’s not either of our faults,” she shrugged, closing the distance between them.

Jon backed away, keeping his hands in his pockets.

“It doesn’t matter. We can’t change it,” he mumbled. “We’ve moved on.” He looked away from her, toward the stairs, and suddenly Sansa felt like an idiot.

Of course he did. Of course he moved on. She was the one with Sarra, a reminder—whom she loved—keeping her from completely moving on the way Jon was apparently able to.

“Oh. Right.” It sounded far more strangled than she thought it would. She backed away suddenly, creating a gulf between them.


	10. Jon

A part of Jon’s heart broke the moment Sansa stepped back and looked away. He said something wrong, even though that was what he thought she wanted to hear. He was the big, scary, dangerous man she used to know. She wouldn’t trust him around Sarra, not after last night, so he might as well just remove himself from the situation. That way he didn’t have to listen to Sansa say it.

But her face changed when he said that. Her eyebrows flattened and her eyes dulled. But he couldn’t take back what he said.

Could he?

“Sansa, I…”

“No, it’s fine. You moved on. I get it.” Her voice was cold and Jon felt his heart break further.

Sansa started for the stairs and Jon couldn’t bear for this moment to be over. He needed her to understand how badly he felt about everything. About how he hated her for the last six years, because he thought she used him. About how he hated her the moment he found out about Sarra. About how he never actually hated her.

About how he never actually stopped loving her.

“Sansa, wait.”

He closed the space between them quickly, grabbing her wrist with his hand, but as soon as she turned around, he dropped it as if it burned him. It had been the same hand he’d punched the man with last night. He couldn’t touch Sansa with that hand.

“Sarra… wh—what’s she like?” he asked after several seconds of them just staring at each other and him breathing way too hard. Sansa’s face softened at those words and some of the tension left Jon’s body seeing that.

“She’s perfect,” Sansa murmured, smiling. “I see a lot of you in her. She’s observant, like you. She has your curls. Your eyes. She’s smart—really smart. She likes to pretend she can read chapter books on her own. She asks questions about everything. She’ll… she’ll probably start asking about you soon.” She said the last part at almost a whisper, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear it.

“What’ll you say?” Jon asked, wrapping his arms across his torso, hoping it hold it all together.

“What do you want me to say, Jon?”

His mouth opened but he couldn’t find any words to say.

“Tell her…” Jon swallowed, and started again. “Tell her about me?”

“Of course I will, Jon.”

“Tell her it—it’s not that I didn’t want her, you know?” He pulled his arms tighter against his chest. _Tell her I love her_ was what he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how.

Sansa looked at him sharply when he said that. Jon didn’t know what that face meant and he wanted to pull the words back.

“You want her?”

“Seven hells, of course I do, Sansa,” he sighed.

“Then wh— _why_ did you say that we’ve moved on?”

“Because I thought that’s what you wanted to hear!”

“You think I _wanted_ to raise my daughter without a father?”

“I thought you wanted to raise her without _me_.”

“That was never what I wanted, Jon.”

Jon heard the sentence as single words. It took him several seconds for his brain to link them together into a coherent phrase. She’d never wanted him out of her life—the letter was proof.

Gods, he wished things had worked out differently. He wished he had found the letter and flown to Highgarden. He wished he could’ve been there when Sarra was born. He wished he could’ve been with Sansa the last six years.

“Do you want me?” Sansa asked, pulling him back to the Stark basement.

“What?”

“Do you want me?” Jon’s heart swelled into his throat at her words, but no sound came out. “Do you, Jon Snow, want me, Sansa Stark? Do you want me in your life? Do you want me as something other than the mother of your daughter?”

 _I love you_ almost came out of his mouth. _I have always loved you_.

Instead he just nodded, not trusting his tongue to form words.

“Do you want me, Jon?”

“I always have,” he finally managed.

Jon barely had a chance to breathe before her hands were on his shoulders and her lips were on his.

Jon’s arms were still pressed to his chest, his hands curled into fists in his armpits with the restraint it took not to wrap his arms around her and never let go.

“Put your hands on me, Jon,” she breathed against his lips. It was like the invisible bonds that were binding his hands broke at those words. His hands were on her waist, her back, pulling her closer, tighter, until she was all he could feel.

Sansa’s hands wound around his back, pulling him toward the sofa until they bumped into it. Instead of trying to work around to the front, he gripped her hips and set her on the back. Her legs wrapped around his waist and Jon couldn’t help but slide his hand from her knee up her thigh, feeling both the silk of the dress and the silk of her skin because of how high up the slit went.

He felt her fingers against his scalp and goosebumps ran down his spine.

Gods, it had been so long since he’d been touched in any way other than training or a match. Her fingers lit trails of fire against his skin everywhere they touched.

Her fingers started at his tie, loosening it until she could reach his buttons and pop the first few open.

“Not here,” he gasped at last, pulling away for the first time.

“My room?”

“No, no, not…”

“Okay, okay, erm…” Sansa’s hands stilled on his chest. “Bathroom?” Jon snorted.

“Maybe… Maybe we can wait—‘til the weekend’s over, I mean,” he offered quietly, his hands retreating to her hips.

“Good idea. I can’t imagine what kind of hell Arya would put us through if we got caught sneaking off at her wedding,” she joked and Jon smiled, relieved. “Plus, if we’re serious about this…” she trailed off, raising her eyebrows. Jon nodded because he was. He was serious. “I— _we_ —need to tell Sarra. If you’re going to be in our lives… You need to be in our lives as her father.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. We'll tell her.”

“If we’re telling her, we need to tell everyone else too. Mum, Dad, Robb and Jeyne, Theon, the boys…”

“Not tonight, though, right? Cause I think Arya would kill us.”

“No, no. We can tell everyone tomorrow. Actu—is that the time?” she asked suddenly, grabbing his wrist. It was nearly midnight. “It’s way past her bedtime. And I told Mum I’d only be gone a few minutes. I should get back.”

“Okay.” Jon took his hands from her hips and let her slide off the back off the sofa.

“I’ll go get her and you can tuck her in with me? She’s sleeping in my room.”

“Are you sure?”

Sansa hand moved from where it was on his chest, up his neck, until it cradled his face. Jon leaned into the warm that radiated from it.

“Of course I am.”

“Okay.”

“Meet you upstairs?” Jon nodded and was surprised when Sansa pressed a quick kiss to his lips before darting upstairs.

* * *

Jon was sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting for Sansa to come up with Sarra. He’d removed his jacket and tie and let his hair down so he looked more like how he normally looked. He at least had some warning—the sound of the sliding door and Sarra explaining _that she was even tired yet—Torrhen didn’t have to go to bed yet._

Jon ducked into Arya’s room while Sansa got her— _their_ —daughter ready for bed.

“Jon?” he heard Sansa whisper a few minutes later, forcing him from the room. “Ready?”

“I think so.”

“Sarra? Someone would like to say goodnight—Jon.”

Jon’s heart was beating faster than he’d ever felt it before. He felt jittery, like he did sometimes before a fight, but this was worse. So much worse. He had no idea how this was going to go.

Sarra wrinkled her nose and Jon thought he was going to throw up.

“I met him already. He fights people. Is that what happened to your face?”

“I, uh…” Jon stuttered, looking to Sansa for help. He was grateful when she patted the spot next to her on the bed.

“He was practicing and got hit. I wanted to make sure you met him because he might be coming down to visit sometime,” Sansa said.

Jon studied Sarra’s face, trying to see all the similarities Sansa had described between her and him. He saw the curls, but he saw so much more of Sansa in her—the way she raised her eyebrows and how she twisted her lips.

“Okay. Can he teach me to fight?”

“No,” they said at the same time and Jon smiled. He actually felt like a dad.

 Sarra pouted and Jon almost giggled.

“Okay, it’s time for bed.”

“Fine,” Sarra sighed, flopping down.

“Goodnight. I love you,” Sansa whispered, pulling the quilt up to Sarra’s shoulder.

“Wait! Can Jon read a chapter first?” she asked, shooting up.

“It’s awfully late…”

“Can I?” Jon asked softly, leaning into Sansa.

“I guess that’s fine. But only one,” she added sternly to Sarra.

Jon felt Sansa’s hand on his shoulder as she stood and he wished she would never stop touching him.

Sarra handed him the book and said with authority, “If the chapter’s really short, you can read more.”


	11. Sansa

Sansa woke up to the sounds of giggling. For one horrifying second, she thought it was because Arya and Gendry had decided to spend their wedding night at the house after all, but then she realized it was Sarra she heard giggling, not Arya.

Curious to see what had her daughter laughing so hard, Sansa opened the door, expecting to see Theon showing her videos or Torrhen telling horrible five-year-old jokes, but the hallway was empty. Sansa stepped across the hall to her childhood bedroom and cracked the door, thinking Sarra coerced Theon to play dress up or something. She was surprised to see blankets draped from wall to wall when she peeked in.

“Sarra?”

The giggling grew louder as Sansa tried to find her way to the center.

“Jon built me a blanket fort!” Sarra exclaimed once Sansa found them.

“I see that.”

“It’s our reading fort. He does voices and everything! Listen!”

Sansa glanced over to Jon, who was holding the book she’d been reading to Sarra every night open with his thumb. She noticed they were considerably farther than they had been last time she’d opened the book.

“How long have you been up for?” Sarra shrugged and Jon looked guilty. “I think it’s time for breakfast.”

“Nooo! One more chapter!” Sarra whined, suddenly clinging to Jon.

“He can’t read another one if he doesn’t eat first,” Sansa said, taking the book from Jon.

“Fine,” Sarra huffed and started to crawl towards the exit. “Come on! The sooner we eat the sooner we can read!”

“You know you don’t have to,” Sansa told Jon quietly.

“I want to,” he whispered before following Sarra out.

Sansa stared after them, a smile growing on her face.

* * *

It was later that afternoon when Sansa finally got a chance to sit down the rest of her family and tell them about Sarra. She was anticipating anger and hurt, but her parents just said _oh!_ in falsely surprised voices, Bran and Rickon just shrugged, and Robb did a victory dance—apparently, he’d bet Jeyne after she’d announced that she was pregnant that Sarra was Jon’s.

What Sansa didn’t anticipate was her mother’s next question.

“Does that mean you and Jon are moving in together?”

“Erm… we haven’t thought that far ahead. We’re still talking things through. But he’s going to be in Sarra’s life. And we just wanted you lot to know.”

“Wait, so you and Jon _aren’t_ dating?” Robb asked.

“I don’t know. We’re figuring things out.”

“How’s the long-distance thing going to work—with you in Riverrun and him up north?”

“Like I said, we’re figuring things out. Actually, Mum, do you think you could watch Sarra for a few hours? Jon and I need some time before either of us leave.”

“Of course.”

“Do you know somewhere private we could talk?”

“Your room? The basement? Someone could keep Theon out.”

Sansa grimaced. She was hoping for someplace else, but with everyone home still, privacy wasn’t really a thing in the Stark house.

“I guess we’ll just go out. You don’t mind if we skip dinner?” she asked her mum.

“No, it’s just leftovers—Arya and Gendry are supposed to stop by before they leave tonight. It’d be nice if you could try to be back for that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Jon will want to say goodbye to them too.”

“Is that it? Are we free to go?” Robb asked, perched on his seat.

“Yeah—I guess this wasn’t actually necessary since you all knew,” she added pointedly at Robb who just grinned wolfishly at her as he passed.

The others left too, wishing her luck with whatever her and Jon decided, until it was only her and Catelyn.

“Sansa?”

“Hmm?”

“I hope it all works out between you and Jon. You’ve been dancing around each other for years—and he’s Sarra’s father. You two deserve a real chance to be happy.”

“Thanks,” Sansa said slowly. She hadn’t been expecting that from her mother. She expected Catelyn to say more—something about duty and family, about how they need to try for Sarra’s sake and how she deserves to have her father as a father. She didn’t though, she just smiled and patted her shoulder before she left Sansa alone in the room.

* * *

Sansa drove them to a nearby restaurant that Catelyn suggested—she had said it was private and quiet. Sansa didn’t quite know what to expect, but what they stepped into certainly wasn’t it. The place was clearly meant for romantic dates—all of the tables were set for two people and there were candles flickering in the middle of each. They were all also spaced far enough apart that it would be hard to eavesdrop.

It was private, all right. Romantic tryst private.

“Oh. I… didn’t know what this place was…” Sansa offered to Jon quietly. This hardly seemed to be an appropriate place to discuss how they would raise their daughter together. “Is it okay?”

“It’s fine,” Jon muttered, shrugging and stuffing his hands in his pockets. Sansa nodded before stepping up to the hostess stand, hoping she looked more confidant that she felt.

They chatted amicably while waiting for the waiter, and Sansa couldn’t help but feel like it was some type of blind date, despite the fact that she _knew_ Jon.

It was all awkward small talk and shifting glances. It was putting her hands on the table and then moving them to her lap because she didn’t know what to do with them.

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief when her waiter came up and asked for their drink order.

“Cranberry vodka?” she said immediately.

“Just water is fine.”

“Water? You don’t want something to drink?”

“I…” Jon looked away from her and away from the man still waiting to take their order. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh. Just water for me too, then,” she told the waiter, trying to ignore the soft and rueful way he had said it. “So, you don’t drink, ever?”

She tried to remember what she’d seen in his hand at the wedding and at the rehearsal dinner, but she just remembered something clear, which she now realized could be almost anything.

“Not since that night, ten years ago.”

“ _Oh_.” She couldn’t believe how stupid she was. “Of course. I can’t believe I forgot…”

“It’s not entirely because of that, though…”

Sansa looked up sharply at the hesitancy of his voice. Something in his tone set her on alert—it sounded like he was going to confess something. What could he possibly have to confess? She was the one who kept Sarra a secret for six years.

“Drinking affects my medication.”

“Med… Oh, for your anxiety,” she filled in, feeling somewhat proud for remembering that tidbit that Arya mentioned a few years ago.

“Yes, that, and… Bipolar II disorder.”

Jon wasn’t looking at her as he said the words, but she could see how hard the words were for him to force out. Her heart broke at how he still wasn’t looking at her.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about. I’ve been on my meds for years and on this dosage for almost three. I’ve been pretty stable since then, aside from the other night. I’m much healthier than I was six years ago. But… I thought you should know.”

The information washed over her, pieces clicking into place. She wasn’t sure what the difference in the bipolar diagnoses was, but she had a basic understanding of the general disorder. His reaction to the pregnancy scare ten years ago, the accident that followed, him getting arrested the other night. It actually made her feel better. It wasn’t that he was being reckless and stupid or immature.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Thanks for telling me.”

Jon looked back up at her for the first time and Sansa could almost feel the vulnerability in his gaze. She held it, unable to look away. She wasn’t sure what was sucking her in, but she jumped when the waiter asked if they were ready to order.

“Arya said something about you being worried about the boxing?” he asked after the man left.

“Not the violence, but the… Isn’t there a higher risk for brain injuries? Or injuries in general?”

“I mean, yeah…” he shrugged. “But not as big of a chance in the circuits I’m in. It’s risky but it helps—training, fighting—it gives me an outlet and routine. It’s the first thing I’ve ever been good at.”

“But if you get hurt…” Sansa struggled to wrap her brain around it. She tried to rationalize it with Robb and Theon and Arya all playing sports all the way through school, but she couldn’t get them to line up. Jon’s seemed so much more dangerous.

“Fighting isn’t something I can do forever. I’ve only got probably five or so years left before I’m out. And if I’m hurt, I’m hurt. I’m out. And… And if it gets in the way of Sarra, I’ll stop fighting.”

Sansa studied him across the table. He was willing to give up the thing he loved, the thing he probably _needed_ if it meant being a good father.

Gods, she wished she weren’t so stupid. She should’ve called him six years ago and told him, even if he never responded to the letter. It was so unfair of her to keep this from him. It was unfair for her to worry about him being dangerous and reckless.

Even after all this time, Jon was still Jon.

“How do we make this work, Jon?”

“My manger has been begging me to agree to fights outside of the north. He’d love for me to do a few fights below the Neck.”

“So, you do a few fights, and what? Be around every few weeks?”

“I’d have to travel between Riverrun and the North, yeah.”

“And I can’t uproot Sarra—”

“I’d never ask you to.”

“Well, there’s always video chat, I guess. And you could try to schedule your fights so that you’re in Riverrun for major events—holidays, birthdays, all that, right?”

“Of course. But…” Jon quieted as the waiter set their food down in front of them and asked if there was anything else they needed.

“But…?” she prompted when he didn’t say anything after the waiter left.

“But what about us? What do we do about us?”

 “What do you want to do about us, Jon?”

Sansa turned the question back to him because he must know her answer. She’d been gladly ready to leave her fiancé six years ago if Jon wanted her. Even when he didn’t call after a month, Sansa still did leave Willas.

It had been two weeks since she’d come back from Winterfell and she still hadn’t heard from Jon, but she refused to believe that night meant nothing to him. She had realized that her feelings for Jon weren’t dormant or something she could push down. She loved him, the same as she did when she was a teenager. She told Willas such, and that she loved him, but not the way she loved Jon. She’d never love anyone the way she loved Jon. She gave him back his ring, packed up her things, and moved in with a friend. She thought about flying back to Winterfell, staying at her parents’, or surprising Jon and forcing him to talk to her, to admit that they were something special, but after a week of staying at her friend’s Sansa realized her period was late and everything she thought about doing suddenly didn’t seem like an option.

“Sansa… I want whatever you want,” he said slowly, diplomatically, after a minute.

Sansa almost threw her fork at him. She didn’t want him to be timid and reserved, offering what he thought she wanted to hear. That’s how they almost walked away from each other last night.

“Well, I want you, so,” she admitted bravely, confidently, before she had the chance to think. “I wanted you six years ago. I wanted you ten years ago. I’ve wanted you all the years in between. I know I never acted on it, but… Seven save me, Jon… You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted. You’re probably the only one I’ll ever want.”

Sansa looked up from her plate to see Jon staring hungrily at her.

“I…yeah. Me too.”

“So… we’ll try this. We’ll make it work.”

“Just… promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“No more letters,” Jon said, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. Sansa couldn’t help but giggle, especially when her knee brushed his under the table.


	12. Jon

Jon was still up far later than he typically was. He’d went to bed a few hours after they got back and didn’t intend to stay up thinking. In fact, he’d been sure he’d fall asleep fairly quickly what with all the drama of the weekend and how high his anxiety had been during the whole dinner with Sansa—not to mention how early Sarra had gotten him up. But here he was, an hour after he lay down, still thinking about his life with Sansa.

He wasn’t sure if it was excitement or anxiousness keeping him up, but it wasn’t the buzzing he was used to. It was just his mind whirring—wondering what he should get Sansa or Sarra as a gift for the next holiday, when’s the soonest fight he could schedule for Riverrun, how it’ll feel saying goodbye, no matter how temporary, tomorrow morning.

Finally, he got up, thinking that tea might help.

In the kitchen, he found Catelyn at the counter, stirring a mug.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, taking down a second mug.

He shook his head, sliding on to the stool at the island across from her.

“How’d your dinner go with Sansa?”

“Fine. We’ve a plan we’re going to try.”

“What about you two? Are you going to try?”

“To be co-parents?” he asked, using the term Sansa had at dinner.

“Co-parents?” Catelyn balked.

“That’s the term, yeah?”

“You just talked about Sarra the whole time?” she asked, passing him a mug of tea. Jon immediately wrapped his hands around the warm porcelain.

“I mean…we’re mostly trying to figure out how to tell her about—about me.”

“Ah, yeah, that’ll be a big step. But… there were no confessions, no feelings?”

Jon glanced away awkwardly, playing with the string on the tea bag. Catelyn was the last person in the Stark family he thought he’d be talking to this about.

“I mean, I guess, yeah,” he admitted quietly, awkwardly. He’d never really gotten the feeling that Catelyn was actively rooting for them. He remembered hearing her talk about Willas and how nice he was.

“Oh, good,” Catelyn said, causing him to jerk his head up. “She’s been in love with you since high school. She even wrote that letter when she was engaged to Willas.”

“She told you about the letter?” he asked, surprised. He thought, given that she had never meant to send it, she never showed it to someone. He was also pretty sure he remembered her cursing Arya for giving him the letter.

“Hmm? Yeah, yeah, of course she did.” Jon stared at her, trying to figure out if she was lying or not. He never spent as much time with Catelyn as the rest of the Starks though, so he didn’t know her face as well. “Blessed Mother, I couldn’t stand that Willas. He wasn’t right for Sansa. She wasn’t herself with him. Not the way she is with you,” she added quietly, setting her mug in the sink.

“Did you… _plant_ that letter six years ago?”

“Of course not,” Catelyn scoffed. “Good night, Jon. See you in the morning,” she said quietly, patting him on the shoulder.

* * *

When Jon woke up the next morning, the first thing he did was check the sheets, pillows, and under the bed, just in case Sansa had written him another letter. Thankfully, she hadn’t.

He was due to fly back north in the early afternoon so he packed his bag before heading up to the kitchen for breakfast.

“Are you leaving?” Sarra asked, hopping down from her chair, as soon as he dropped his bag in the kitchen.

“In a few hours, yeah.”

“Can you read to me before you go? We’re almost done with the book.”

“No, Sarra. We’ll finish the book when we get home. We’re leaving this morning, too,” Sansa answered for him, coming around the island. “Plus, your book is already in the car.”

Sarra pouted, turning from Sansa to Jon as if she knew he would be the one to break.

“Would it be a hassle to unpack it?” he asked Sansa in an undertone.

“Seven save me, you’re terrible. It’s in my bag by the front door.”

“I _knew_ it!” Sarra exclaimed before rushing off to the foyer.

“You’re heading out soon?”

“Yeah, in an hour or so. It’s a long drive back. What time is your flight?”

“Half one. I should leave not too long after you probably do.”

Sansa nodded and Jon wanted to ask if she was sure about all of this. About him, about them trying, but then he remembered what Catelyn said last night. If Catelyn was sure, he could be too.

“Oh, I spoke with your mum last night,” he told her after they’d both been quiet for a minute.

“What about?”

“Us, Sarra. She asked how dinner was. Did, erm. Did you tell her about the letter you wrote? The first one?” The speed at which Sansa’s eyebrows rose gave him his answer.

“I did not,” she said pointedly. “Did she mention it?” He nodded. “Do you think Arya told her? No…” Sansa muttered to herself.

“Sansa… I think your mum might’ve found it in your bag, not Arya.”

“ _Mum_? No, no…”

“Found it!” Sarra came in then, carrying the book. “Can we make a reading fort again?”

“No, you only have time for two chapters,” Sansa said.

“But we have four left!”

“We’ll read the last two tonight. Promise.”

“Fine,” Sarra sulked, taking the book to the living room. Jon took that as his cue to follow her.

* * *

“But we’re so close!” Sarra whined, clutching the book to her chest, as Sansa packed the bags into the car.

“We’ll finish it tonight. We have to get going.”

“But Jon won’t be there! I want _Jon_ to read it to me!”

Jon was helping Sansa with a bag but he nearly lost all feeling in his limbs when Sarra said that. Sansa glanced at him and shrugged, as if to say _you’re her dad. You take care of this one._

Jon sighed before crouching down in front of Sarra.

“Your mum will read you the last few chapters. You started the book with her, you should finish it with her,” he explained gently.

“But I want _you_ to finish it with me.”

“Tell you what. I’ll be down in Riverrun in a few weeks. I’ll come visit and we can have a book that we read whenever I’m down there.”

“You’ll come soon?”

“In two weeks,” Jon promised. “Plus, I’ve not read the beginning of this book. I don’t want to know the ending yet,” he added, thinking that she would have inherited Sansa’s displeasure with spoilers.

“Oh. Yeah…” Sarra whispered. “Here,” she said suddenly, thrusting the book onto him. “You can read it. Then we can read the last two together when you come.”

Jon held the book and for some reason he felt tears sting his eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asked, hoping she didn’t notice how choked up he sounded.

“Yeah. Then I can start a new book tonight _and_ we can have a book for when you visit.”

“Okay,” Jon murmured, trying not to cradle the book to his chest, the way he wished he could with his daughter.

“You’re coming in two weeks?”

“Two weeks. We’ll read the last chapters then.”

“Okay.” Sarra threw her arms around him then and it took all he had not squeeze tight and never let go.

He watched with his heart in his throat as Sansa got Sarra buckled into the car seat and the last of her bags packed in the passenger’s side.

“You know, you have to come now. She’ll be asking when you’re coming every day until you can read those chapters,” Sansa said, coming around to meet him near the back.

“I know.”

“So, two weeks?” Jon nodded.

“I’ve a fight in High Heart that Thursday. I’ll drive down to Riverrun after and stay ‘til Sunday?”

“Okay. And you have my number? And address?”

“Yeah. And you’ve mine?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. So… I’ll see you in two weeks?”

“I…yeah.”

Sansa leaned in to hug him then and Jon felt the same urge to never let go he had with Sarra.

“Bye,” she whispered, stepping back.

“I—Sansa, wait.” He rushed around, stopping her from opening the car door. She stared at him with curiosity before he took her face in his hands, turning her away from Sarra’s view, and kissed her with ten years’ worth of unspoken _I love yous_. “I’ll call tonight, okay?”

“Okay. See you, Jon.”

He let her get into the car this time, and watched, clutching Sarra’s book, as they drove away.

* * *

Jon made Robb drive him to the airport this time. He was still not happy with Theon after Sansa explained what must’ve happened at the rehearsal dinner: she and Arya were discussing her plan to tell him about Sarra that night, which Theon overheard and went running to tell Jon immediately. He knew Theon had his best interest at heart, and he had found the letter in the pullout, but he almost ruined his relationship with Sansa and Sarra by telling Jon what he’d overheard.

“It won’t be five years until your back again, will it?” Robb asked.

“I don’t think so. Sansa and I are both planning on coming here for the holidays.”

“Oh, you are, are you?”

“Oh, shut up. Sansa said you’ve another bet with Jeyne going. I’m not telling you anything.”

“I’ll see you soon, though?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be back soon.”

“Have a safe flight,” Robb said, pulling him into a brief hug.

“Thanks.”

When Jon got to his terminal, he saw that his flight had been delayed. Sighing, he sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs and pulled his bag open. His instincts had him reaching for his tablet, but instead he felt his hand wrap around the paperback in front of it.

With a flutter in his chest, Jon opened it and saw Sansa’s name written in the neat cursive she’d used in middle school. Beneath it was Sarra’s name in her five-year-old squiggle. He gently traced his fingers over both names.

Suddenly, he closed the book and stalked back through the airport, to the front desk.

“When’s the next flight to Riverrun?”

* * *

Two hours later, his flight to Riverrun finally boarded. He figured that Sansa and Sarra would beat him by about an hour.

He just hoped he’d be there before Sarra’s bedtime.

* * *

Jon was relieved to see lights still on when the cab pulled up the drive.

He thought for sure his heart would be pounding, blood buzzing, when his finger pressed against the doorbell but he felt calm. As if this was what he was meant to do.

His stomach started getting butterflies when Sansa opened the door though.

“Jo—I…wha—”

“I read everything but the last two chapters on the plane. I needed to know what happens next,” he said by way of explanation, holding Sarra’s book up. “But I promised to read those chapters with my daughter.”

Sansa continued to stare open mouth even as she held the door open for him.

“You really didn’t have to,” she murmured after a second, leading him into the house.

“I know. I wanted to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is an epilogue and should be up sometime tomorrow.


	13. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long. I honestly had no idea how to end it, but I think I'm happy with how it came out.

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

 

Jon woke to the feeling of the warmth of a hand landing on his back.

For a minute, he thought he was dreaming. Or maybe that he had been transported back ten years. Back to a time when he woke up next to people—next to one person in particular.

It was only when he heard the pounding of footsteps down the hall that he remembered that he was in Riverrun, that the hand was Sansa’s, and the footsteps were his daughter’s.

The only warning he had before the door flew open was the pause of footsteps, but he had no warning as Sarra pounced onto the bed, her knee nearly landing in his stomach.

“Oof,” he muttered, shifting out of the way so Sarra could wriggle between them.

“Guess what! Guess what! Guess what!” she cried, bouncing up and down hard enough that the bed shook.

“’S too early for guessing games,” Sansa groaned from her side of the bed.

Sarra looked fleetingly disappointed, but quickly redirected her excitement towards him.

“Jon! Guess what!”

“Your tooth is loose?” he guessed.

Sansa had called him a few weeks ago to warn him that Sarra was complaining about her mouth hurting and Sansa thought she might be getting close to losing her first tooth. She had said it was an unpredictable thing, but she’d try to give him some warning so he could try to get there for her first visit from the Tooth Fairy.

Sarra prodded at her teeth with her tongue, face scrunched up, as if trying to determine any feeling of movement.

“I don’t think so. BUT GUESS WHAT!”

“What?”

“Look!” She lunged across Sansa’s half-asleep form for her tablet. With ease Jon was still shocked by, Sarra opened YouTube and called up a video. “Look!” she said again, shoving the tablet at him.

At first, Jon wasn’t sure what he was watching. It was a lot of bright colors and young actors and CGI. It wasn’t until they showed the title card that Jon realized why Sarra had been so excited.

“They’re making a movie version?” he asked stupidly.

“It comes out the week before my birthday! Can we go see it?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ll keep an eye on tickets.”

“Yay!” Sarra threw her arms around him before sliding off the bed and running for the door. “When’s breakfast?” she asked after skidding to a halt in the doorway.

“Soon. I’ll make waffles in a minute,” he offered, causing her to flash him the widest grin, before scurrying away.

“That trailer is going to be the only thing I hear for the next three weeks,” Sansa muttered, pulling herself up as Jon threw on a hoodie.

“It’ll be better than the Disney song she was obsessed with last month. That was bad.”

“That _was_ bad—and you only got half of it.”

If Sansa had said that to him five months ago, Jon would’ve shut down. He would’ve said something about how he offered to move down here, that first night he showed up to finish the book with Sarra, but Sansa told him not to be ridiculous. He had a life up north. He couldn’t just move everything down with them at the drop of a hat. And she was right, he knew she was. But he still felt bad that he was only there every two weeks. That while he tried to be in Riverrun for the big stuff, he still missed things. Like the time Sarra said _what the hell is your problem_ to a kid on the playground. She’d gotten in trouble, but Sansa could hardly breathe from laughing so hard when she recounted the story on the phone. He missed that. He didn’t get to try to keep a straight face in the principal’s office while being told off for having a kindergartener say _hell._

Now, though, after splitting his time for six months, he knew Sansa didn’t mean anything by it. He knew that she was expressing her irritation at the song, not at him for not being there. He was doing what he could and it was working well.

“Jon?” Sansa asked, voice suddenly sounding different than the joking exasperation it had been only minutes later.

“What?”

“The movie comes out the same day as that big fight you have up north. The one against what’s-his-face—Bonepants?”

“Rattleshirt? Is it?” Sansa showed him the website she was on, looking at ticket presales. “I’ll get the fight moved. I’ll call Sam after breakfast,” he shrugged.

“Are you sure? You weren’t supposed to come down until her birthday.”

“I can do both. It’s fine. I’m sure I can get something down here that weekend. No big deal.”

“Okay.”

“You coming?” he asked after a second, paused at the door, while Sansa was still comfy under the duvet.

“I heard something about someone making waffles? I don’t think I’m needed yet,” she grinned, flopping back down.

“I’ll send Sarra up when they’re ready,” he relented, crossing the room to kiss her.

“Mmm. Maybe waffles can wait,” she murmured, hands curling into his hair.

“Muuumm! Joooon! Can I have chocolate waffles?”

“I don’t think they can,” he laughed, kissing her one last time before doing downstairs to make waffles with his daughter.

* * *

“I need to move the Rattleshirt fight,” Jon said on the phone a few hours later.

“What? Why?”

“Sarra’s favorite book is getting a movie adaptation and it comes out that day. It’s the book I read on the plane to Riverrun that day?”

“Ooh, right. Okay. I’ll see what I can do,” Sam muttered. “And if it can’t be moved?”

“Sarra comes first.”

“Right. Of course. Okay. I’ll call his manager. It’s just—”

“Sarra comes first,” Jon repeated.

“No, I know. But Rattleshirt will rip you apart for moving the fight. He’ll call you a coward, a craven… Are you sure you can’t take her the next day or something?”

“Sam.”

“No, right, okay. I’ll call. I’ll let you know what they say.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Tell Sansa and Sarra hi for me.”

“I will.”

* * *

Sam called him back the next morning while he was on his way to the airport.

“They won’t move the fight. He says that if you don’t come, he’ll get you blacklisted for dodging a fight.”

“Remind me why I agreed to this fight in the first place?”

“’Cause he was calling you a coward to reporters for not fighting him.”

“Right.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Did you explain why I needed the fight moved?”

“I did. He said some very not politically correct things.”

“About Sarra?”

“No, mostly about your manhood.”

“Do you think he has enough reach to blacklist me in Riverrun too?”

“I think he could.”

“Give me his number.”

“Jon… That’s—that’s not wise.”

“Sam. I’ll handle it myself.”

“There’s a reason you lot have managers and a reason we talk to each other instead of letting you all do it. You’re all hotheads. You’ll say something stupid and make it worse.”

“Sam. Either get the fight moved or give me his number.”

“Fine. I’ll call you with it when you land.”

* * *

Jon always hated his apartment his first night back from Riverrun. It was too quiet, too stark, too lonely after spending two weeks in Riverrun. He thought about selling it and finding someplace else, but nothing here felt permanent anymore. It felt like a hotel room, like the ones he stayed in at first in Riverrun.

This was no longer his home.

This was his purgatory every two weeks until he could return home.

In the silence, he got ready for bed, missing the way he and Sansa had to dodge around each other to brush their teeth in her bathroom. He missed the way Sarra’s nightlight made a soft whirring sound as it rotated that he could hear from down the hall.

In bed with sheets too newly crisp from not being used enough, he called Sansa.

“Perfect timing. She just finished brushing her teeth. Sarra! Jon’s called to say good night!”

Jon’s heart clenched at the sound of his daughter’s voice over the phone.

At the beginning, he loved this part. The ability to say _sweet dreams_ every night, but as he grew into their lives in Riverrun and got to tuck her in, he realized just how drastically this paled in comparison.

“Did you talk to Sam?” Sansa asked once Sarra was all tucked in.

“Working on it. Rattleshirt’s threatening to blacklist me if I dodge the fight.”

“Wha—he won’t move it?”

“No. He’s an asshole. The only reason I agreed to the fight in the first place was to shut him up. He kept going off at me in the media.”

“What does that mean, if he blacklists you?”

“It means I won’t be able to get any fights up here. Maybe none in Riverrun.”

“He’d stop you from boxing?”

“He’d try.”

“What are you going to do?”

Jon shrugged even though he knew she couldn’t see him. He knew what he should do: call the bastard out for what he was, explain to the media why he wanted to move the fight, paint him as the bad guy. Or even just ignore it all and take his daughter to see the movie.

But if he did that, there was a potential for not being able to box anymore. He didn’t know who he was anymore without boxing. He needed it.

He knew he promised he’d drop it the second it got in the way of Sarra, but never fighting again? When it helped him so much? He’d never considered that. He just thought he’d stop doing the televised fights, the big ones, and still do the small-time circuit he preferred, but he was blacklisted, he wouldn’t be able to do any of it. They could keep him from training gyms if Rattleshirt had enough pull.

“I’m going to fix it. We’re taking her to the movie.”

“Okay.”

“I love you,” Jon said softly, wishing he was saying it to her face.

“I know. I love you too. Sweet dreams, Jon.”

“You too,” he mumbled as she clicked off. Jon set the phone on his nightstand and rolled over to the side of the bed he typically slept on while in Riverrun, trying to ignore how empty the rest of it felt.

* * *

“I fixed it,” Jon announced as he walked into Sam’s office a few days later.

“You fixed it? What’d you do?”

“Don’t worry, just trust me.”

“I worry every time you tell me not to worry. I promised Sansa I wouldn’t let you do anything stupid. How am I supposed to do that if you go off and do things on your own?”

“Why do you assume I did something stupid?”

Sam leveled him with a look.

“I promise it’s not stupid. And it means I’ll be able to take Sarra to the movie.”

“Sansa’ll kill me if it is,” Sam muttered.

* * *

“You got the fight moved?” Sansa asked on the phone that night.

“Yeah. It’s only two days earlier than it was supposed to be. I’ll catch a redeye after it.”

“What’d you have to do to get him to move it?”

“We made a deal.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It’s alright. Actually—maybe you and Sarra could watch this one. There’s talk of it being put on regular channels.”

“You didn’t promise to lose or something, did you?”

“No, of course not. It’s nothing stupid.”

“Good. Sam promised me he’d keep you from doing stupid things.”

“I’ll buy the movie tickets tonight.”

“Okay. You—you’ll be safe, won’t you? I looked up Rattleshirt and it looks like he fights dirty.”

“Of course, I will. He does, but I know his style. I know what to watch for. Plus, I don’t fight like used to.”

“How’d you used to fight?”

“Like I had nothing to lose.”

* * *

The morning of the fight Jon didn’t wake up with his normal buzzing adrenaline. No, he was calm and steady, even though this fight had the definite potential to be the biggest of his career.

Maybe it was because it didn’t matter the outcome of the fight. He knew what he was doing next regardless of whether he won or lost. He was taking a chance and he was completely secure in that decision.

* * *

Sam found him in the dressing room getting his wraps checked an hour before the fight was supposed to start.

“What did you do?” he asked quietly, urgently.

“What I had to.”

“They’re calling this your last fight. You’re giving up the chance for title in the North?”

“I don’t think I ever had a chance for any title,” Jon scoffed.

“This is your last fight?” Sam nearly screeched.

“No. It’s my last fight _here_. I’m moving to Riverrun. Rattleshirt can have the North, the Wall, I don’t care.”

“That’s what you had to do to get him move the fight? Flee south?”

“No, that’s what _I_ proposed. I’m not at home here anymore, Sam. I come back and I want to immediately jump back on the plane to Riverrun. This is just an excuse to do it.”

“Well, the way Rattleshirt is playing it up to the media, it sounds like he’s running you out. He’s saying he’s going to beat you so badly that you’ll have to leave.”

“I know. I let him. Told him he could say whatever he wanted—hype it, spin it—so long as he moved the fight.”

“Mhmm,” Sam nodded, his round face quickly shading pink. “Sansa’s definitely going to kill me.”

“It’s fine. It’s not stupid. It’s what had to be done.”

“You better not have promised to lose.”

* * *

When Jon walked into the arena in his black robe, the roar deafened him. He’d told Rattleshirt to hype all and however he wanted, but Jon never considered that this many people would show up to see it. At most, he was used to maybe a hundred or so watching. This was probably at least ten times that.

“Jon Snow, the Lord o’ Bones has been saying that this fight would end you. He’s been calling you a coward and a crow for the last two weeks. What do you have to say?” a reporter asked, sticking the microphone in his face.

“He can say whatever he wants,” Jon shrugged. He was so ready for this part to be over. He’d stick to small-circuits in Riverrun and never give an interview again.

“Now, I see you have a different name on your robe tonight. A lady love, maybe?”

“No. It’s Sarra—my daughter’s name. I moved the fight so I could take her to a movie this weekend,” Jon explained.

Jon saw the way the reporter’s eyes and mouth widened—she didn’t know which tidbit of information to latch onto first.

“A family man. Wow,” she said at last.

“Sorry, I’ve got to get warmed up,” Jon muttered, pushing through before she could ask anything else. He’d okayed the name and the answer with Sansa, but that was all. He didn’t want the reporter to ask any more than that.

Jon bounced in the corner twenty minutes later, waiting for the announcer to get over his spiel, hyping the supposed rivalry between them. He must’ve caught what Jon had said to the reporter though, because he added something about Rattleshirt not caring about a little girl’s feelings. Jon could practically see the way Rattleshirt seethed at that. He was supposed to be the good guy, defeating Jon who wasn’t even from around here. This far north they considered Winterfell the South, but here was the announcer, making Jon sound like some gallant hero.

* * *

The first two rounds went quickly, and the few times Rattleshirt landed something Jon barely felt it. He saw every trick he tried to play and met him at every jab. He was focus, determined, and so excited for this fight to be over so he could hop on that plane.

When the third and final round started, Jon saw a different look in Rattleshirt’s eyes. Before, he’d been angry and focused, now his eyes ran wild with rage burning in them.

Barely a second after the whistle blew to start the round, Rattleshirt was jab and crossing him until his back was against the ropes.

“You’re supposed to lose,” he hissed, spit and foam forming from trying to talk with the mouthguard in.

He was. Jon agreed to lose—to play it up like Rattleshirt ran him south, just like Sam had said earlier. But Sansa had texted before the fight started, saying she and Sarra were watching and he better not do anything stupid because they loved him.

“My daughter’s watching,” Jon spat back around his own mouthguard, and punched Rattleshirt in the kidney.

The rest of the round was a blur—Rattleshirt fought vehemently, dirty, and without care for the referee. He managed to get Jon in the face several times, despite the helmets they both wore, but it the end it was Jon’s arm that the ref rose.

* * *

“Your face,” Sansa groaned when she picked him up from the airport early the next morning.

“It only looks this bad because I haven’t showered yet. I’ll be fine for tomorrow,” he promised, but he let her fuss over him when they got home all the same.

“So, they’re saying that that was your last Northern fight,” Sansa posed quietly, later that night when they were in bed and he had several painkillers to fight the pulsing he felt in his eye.

“It was. I’m selling my apartment. Sam’s shipping my stuff down next week. I… It wasn’t home,” he admitted quietly. He realized now that maybe sharing some of this with Sansa beforehand might’ve been a good idea. “I was thinking of getting a place here. There’re apartments for rent near Sarra’s school.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just move in here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. You basically live here every two weeks anyway. Sarra’ll be so excited to have her dad around all the time.”

“She still hasn’t called me that yet, though,” Jon muttered, studying the textured pattern of the ceiling.

They’d told Sarra a few months ago, after she’d gotten used to him being around. A part of him hoped she’d pick it up right away and they’d be Mum and Dad, but he was still Jon.

“Give her time. She drew you in that family portrait she had to do.”

“I know. I won’t be Jon to her forever, though, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Plus, you know who she’s more excited about seeing that movie with tomorrow? You, not me. Last two weeks, it’s been _Jon’s coming too, right? He’ll be here?_ That book is more your thing than it is hers and mine.”

“Really?”

“Damn annoying, it was. Every day she asked how many more days until you’d be back. She loves you, Jon. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.”

* * *

Sarra babbled about the book the whole way to the theatre the next afternoon. Jon answered questions when he could, but he’d read the book six months ago and some of the finer details escaped his memory. Sarra exclaimed with dramatics every time, asking _but how could you forget that_?  He realized that the whole of her conversation was directed at him and not Sansa, and he realized that she was right. This was him and Sarra’s thing. And that was more than he could ask for.

The theatre was packed with other families, and Jon noticed that there were only a handful of other dads in the theatre. Something about that made him feel good, made him pull back his shoulders a little more proudly.

“Ah! There’s Genna!” Sarra squealed, running down the aisle to a girl about her age. Jon followed while Sansa claimed their seats.

He stopped a few paces away, watching Sarra turning around to point at him.

“Yeah, that’s my dad,” she said. “He’s a superhero.”


End file.
